So Many Plays Within A Play. Poem by Subrata Ray

All those Hamlets are born terrorists,
Psychic riots on metamorphosis,
Obligations of fixations obsess,
‘To be or not to be’ they can’t erase.

The Prosperoes need the Arials,
To control the Calibans,
As night soothes day’s drudgery,
When the sweat of the sun is gone.

The Bottoms and the Falstaffs,
Need neither knowledge nor ignorance,
To them the apparent and the dream,
Die and take birth in an unearthly earth.

The burdens of ethics and the diseases of dogmas,
Like ghosts from airy deserts, play age-long wanton,
The soil like the tongue, taste and stomach,
No results in the dark forest yield,
But incessant waves of illusory funs.

The day opens one play, the night another,
Play opens play as life moves from far to farther.
Fields after fields create unified field,
And the Brahman reflects in all plays,
The Abstract comes and goes, building and leaving the clay.