Tuesday, 19 March 2013

pastoral

How hard is it to speak of a green land
enshrined by doubt? I am writing of villages,
of beauty, golden sun, and neglecting freedom.
Or is it freedom to think of this green community
of happy people? Is it freedom to realize that
one's imagination can transgress the dirty boundaries
of overpopulated cities? Is it freedom to recognize
that in the south

much down south

there are people of God too,
and Sanskrit, the lofty language of the Gods,
borrows divine tears.

It isn't hard to desire an escape from ugliness,
from inequities of race, class and gender.
To want to escape the limits of two
principles working dialectically. Even duality
can constrict, and one principle must be stronger.
Think, the city dweller says, think of how
to be free
from privilege.

Nothing constricts more than privilege,
not even lack.

Lack leads to fantasy,
and fantasy to
transcendence.

Therefore in the dirty bylanes of destiny,
and the amorphous alleys
 of modernity
sprung up green valleys.
Valleys of love, harmony, and truth.
Desire, dreams, liberty;
all those things

all that would never exist.

But how does it matter?
As long as such catechism could make
a child could
cry
the tears of the nation.