East Land Poem by abhimanyu kumar.s

April is the cruellest month,
Infalliably all the 12 months.
Traditionally demise, spritually feeble,
Materially firm and culturally parched.

Morning dark, night bright,
droughts, storms, muddle in monsoon.
Legendary roots got detached,
Forming a new trend of hybridism.

Subjects face anarchical tendencies,
Bones speak and stones still.
Folk got restored by alien melody,
Science replaced customs and values.

Everything in turmoil and chaos,
Occult mind and Orient body.
Nothing is constant in Orients,
But absurdity, not change.

Imitations work here on grand scale,
Respect to ancestors in small scale.
Men powerless, others meaningless,
Life is savage, absurd in nature.

Here nobody hears nobody,
Everybody hears nobody here.
Theories and reservation on screen,
Stucturalists, some, others in green.

Life hapless and listless,
Masses reveal gist in nothing.
Examples speak no definitions.
Writers speak only of imagination.

The sun comes and goes,
Lives come and go, dead and gone.
Genuine love a piligrimage,
Material love a bin drainage.

High rise in crime and sufferings,
Science, -isms, hunger, fashion, unemployment.
once served spritual messages to the world,
Awards in physics and chaste in metaphysics.

Eliot traverrsed with his barren land,
Sterilized his land at sheer Ganga.
Presently this land itself is dry,
Dry in culture, wet in cries.

Incarnations, 'DA DA DA' doesn't work here,
Demons and devils can do hell of heaven.
Two faces work in Orient Spritious Mundi,
One being progress and the other poverty.

Music should stop and dance start,
Days, centuries and ages should restart.
This art is impersonal, but tone personal,
Personal or impersonal, life is hellish.

Hopes are to the weakest and most degraded,
I've been born, and once is enough.
Westernization, Modernization, Globalization.........