Turn the Page, Turn the Life | A Writer’s Battle for Survival | Help Her Win
Turn the Page, Turn the Life | A Writer’s Battle for Survival | Help Her Win

Ishan Agarwal



Ishan Agarwal




3 mins

Though in the crowds you wander,

Though you’re in Muddy Street,

Though in squalor and turmoil, you flounder,

And the lowest men you meet,

Though in the dusty meanders,

You’ll see your soul’s footsteps fleet,

And like all others,

Yours are, but dirty feet.

In a moment of heartfelt candor,

You’ll feel your heart’s true beat.

As the sights and smells surround you,

You look for those that are near.

As strange visions come into view;

Familiar sounds abound here.

And you are drawn closer to see,

What compels you, truly to be,

But, a part of this meandering melee?

To come again, to that you hold dear,

Not bargains measured,

Nor goods bought, sold and treasured.

Here you find priceless ease,

Not in the paths, velvet-lined,

Nor in those tastes, refined,

But of that dusty coarseness; that doesn’t displease.

A market place of glances,

Where smiles are but for sale.

Men busy with their evil dances,

Women not sheltered, in spite of their veil.

Here they come to share alike,

And worldly sorrows fade.

Here all men are not alike,

Homeless: some, with arrogant pride.

Here live’s weary pilgrims meet,

Tired; they are of walking alone.

Together, share they; hope forlorn,

And as the dayparts, deport on lonely, weary feet.

Though the rates make you sigh,

In the mounds of rubbish: high.

Though in the scorching summer, you fry,

Carry on for a good bargain; you must,

Carry on and try!

Oh! Weary pilgrim,

Your life is but a span.

Why waste time in pleasure’s caravan?

Seek answers to inner questions,

In the proud, old pageant: of man.

Oh! Weary pilgrim,

When will your search be done?

And end your worldly journey,

And see the rising sun.

Oh! My beloved brothers, my soulful sisters,

My mindful, mothers, my foster fathers,

To leave this ‘market’, why do I fear?

Oh! My flesh’s burning blisters,

Why do I hold back a tear?

Why am I drawn back with fear?

Is there something here,

That my heart still holds dear?

Oh! Rationalist, you have wrong notions,

Miles do not measure the soul’s deep ocean.

Oh! Philosopher, you have no emotions,

To cure the heart's sickness; is not your potion.

Here in the heart of the city,

My heart still can feel;

Here, surrounded, all around by pity,

My senses still make me reel.

Oh! Its, a meaningless, market; so meaningful!

Oh! It’s wild chaos: so beautiful!

Oh! If only you too could dare,

To live life, without care,

And enter your minds deep dark lair:

To be with me, in this eternal fair!

Oh! If only you could open your eyes and see,

The meaning of this meaningless melee;

Then you’ll be living with tranquility, like the giant Oak tree,

Then only, both your mind and heart will be free.

Then there will be glory, crowning,

When you; your Sunday coin toss,

And come Monday morning,

You’ll mourn a different loss.

This is the world; a market place of life,

Far from any ideal,

Whole, free from strife,

Where chaos comes alive!

For, even in this realm,

Your heart can still feel

How a strange calm permeates.

Through, the cacophony, of this dream!

You may think that I am a dreamer,

I really don’t care.

I only wish you too could

Live life; without despair.

You may think that I am a dreamer,

Maybe it really is true.

But why hold such a view,

That dreams, in reality, never come true.

You may think that I’m a dreamer,

In this ‘market’, maybe I’m the only one.

I hope you will join me,

Then my day’s duty shall be done.

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