The Gentle And The Men, Drove On

The gentle and the men
Drove on,
Driven by the yen
To extinguish the anguish
That life and living spawn.

The gentle and the men
Drove on
On the roads that bend
As they please,
Refusing to be predictable,
Refusing to cease.

Two rivulets rushed down
The hills
Like streams of milk
Oozing out of breasts of mother Yashoda
Upon seeing Madhav
Return home at dusk,
 Spent and worn.
The gentle and the men
Drove on.

 The stately hills looked on.
Or did they too giggle
At the banter produced by
The gentle and the men
As they drove on?

The clouds and hills squabbled.
In a bid to be one up,
The clouds cast shadows
That eclipsed the hills; and
Hills, they raise their heads,
Impudently,
To touch the very clouds
They won’t fawn
As the gentle and the men
Drove on.

The clouds gloated
Over their mobility
And fluidity,
Mocking the static hills;
The hills took pride in stability,
In their simple forms and regularity,
Changeless since they were born,
As the gentle and the men
Drove on.


Who could say whether
The mobility was not freedom
But punishment?
It came at a cost—the lack of belonging.
Everywhere but nowhere.
Wasn’t the stability an act?
An act under constant attack from
Forces of nature—the winds of desire,
The torrent of temptations,
The quakes of urges.

Neither was better off.
They laughed at the facades
The hills and the clouds don,
As the gentle and the men
Drove on.



~ aviD