Will he let me walk alone?
When I stumble and fall
And want to get up
All by myself, will he
Just let me?
And when I grow up
And need his hand on my head
Will he do it silently?
And when I want him to say
Those comforting words,
Will he just say that much?
And when he wants me to
Pat him on his head,
Will he just ask for it?
You called out for me.
You called me in.
They waited and knocked
Wanting me out.
Two in peace
And of a piece
Are a big noise
In the rest of the world
That knows no rest.
You tried but could not
Stop the gust coming in
And blowing things
Hither thither.
I am out now, they happy
Inside all covered by dust
Blown from four corners
Of the world.
Cows gathered and calves licked
His palms, as he fed them
Slices of bread
In the early morning.
Pigeons picked grain while
Parrots tried mingling with them.
The stray dogs stirred out of
Their slumber.
I watched the old man
And his delight at feeding
The cows.
He looked up and said,”
What a nice feeling!”
Indeed feed is
Such a good deed!
Was that my voice,
so soft and warm?
Were those my words,
so straight and tight?
It’s as though
I have never known
this creature called
Myself.
Did I push him out
of my horizon?
I don’t even know
what and how I dealt
him. Nor what happened
to and of him.
Now as the journey
comes to an end
the Bus conductor
is asking if he is
carrying his ticket.
“If a man has paid
with his life, his
Shadow is free”.
The conductor was
gracious not to ask
who was the man and
who the shadow.
The city looks bleak
From the lush outskirts
And the river muddy
From atop the hill.
I pulled myself
Out of every mainstream
Only to look
Scornfully at those
In the centre.
Their glory garish,
Their entertainment tawdry
And their life a tragic loss.
I was on a high horse
And majestic!
But statues can’t move a muscle!!
Some questions
are best left to time
to answer;
Time is capacious
to carry all
possibilities;
The great director above
chooses the scripts
He wishes to play
on the stage
at particular times.
Time always selects
the role of dwarf
for Logic
whatever be the script
and whichever the play.
They scratched their heads
and screamed;
They strained their veins
and vented,
They shouted their guts
and shook their fists.
And then they
saw what they were yelling after:
the colour of money.
And all colour drained from their
Faces
At
Once.
Money took away
what life had gifted them:
colours of life.
It has been my lot
to put life back
into Clocks
that tick not
any more
They don’t like
the ghastly sight
of a Clock not moving.
But Time hasn’t stopped.
I suspect it never will,
except for the living
who keep repeating
the same script
from childhood to
oldage, of eat-drink-make merry
and marry-carry-tarry.
I am happy putting life
back into Clocks, not
having to dirty my hands
handling the living.
Silo (1938 - 2010) was the Argentinian thinker and writer whose work gave shape to the New Humanism. (www.silo.net) Notably all his works are freely available on the internet. Centrality of the human being, non-violence, freedom, respect for all cultures and a ceaseless quest for learning are the cornerstones of New Humanism. Silo wrote with extreme economy of words and with extreme subtlety of meanings. One of my favourite quotes from him is : "There is no criminal in the world who is a stranger to me". My salute to Silo.
He returned to his roots
only to widen his horizons
He spoke from his heart
only to break through thick skulls
He made images dance
only to clear the ground
He touched the cords
with few words crafted
Like a true artist he
Played with and not
Played upon his instruments
He smiled his way heartily
Across the seven seas
to overcome suffering of millions
And travelled across centuries
Back and forth to connect with
The eternal stream of humanising
This earth and its skies.
