weorð

weird is worth it

Three Thousand Steps from Baticulin

Every count takes a second.

Look at the vagrancy of vultures,

 ensconced in a dim and paltry ensemble

of cities and parks.

Lights are running over shadows.

A whiff of cold, acid air

Every second on a footstep,

aiming to reach the long queue of jeepneys,

drew fear for the rumbling  motorcycles,

and a man licentiously fair to wander round

an aching ankle.

A thousand steps more and,

more faces stepped on some thousand yards

closer, still, yet amorphous still,

of what now shall we call man for a man

a woman for a woman?

The essence gone on some wild liberating law

Gender’s no issue.

But the law took time resolving

and the morals took less evolving.

Photograph a menacing façade:

a contrast like poverty built upon gleaming skyscrapers

or say, a ramble, a car chase, a love story on corruption.

Five hundred steps more to Greenbelt.

Ah! Shades of green and a touch of good old opulence!

But these memories,

 lest be kept among

outfits of washed out style and glory,

are preserved, bounded, exhibited.

Three thousand steps and we end

to say ‘at long last we reached the destination:

comfort, art and exultation.

It no longer boast of a sound choice

so we pepper films and prints,

malls and streets,

trains and PUVs with as much words,

compositions, sceneries

and say,

‘nay, it is a beauty.’

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