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The Alley
The Alley
★★★★★

© Raghav Arora

Classics Others

3 Minutes   20.5K    3


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For I've known the truth.
Nothing, but a name echoes.
Till ages it shows,
The picture to all, meaning to some,
Before it fades, before it goes,
Unto where it came,
From where it would again come...

 

I am not supposed to know,
I am not a name, or a frame
For the pictures that are called to the show,
Bounded, above all,
For times, until times, standing in a row.

 

Call me wall.
Or call us two walls.
We are one, as the banks of the river,
Separated by the path you tread,
We stand upright, with skin pale as dead,
Bouncing off the balls,
Carrying all your falls,
Like we did for your father,
Likewise we shall be doing when you are a father.
And we keep on.

 

We let you overwrite the scribbles,
Some of you, who find us worth their boards,
Despite the openness we carry in this private world.
Or maybe those other of you,
Who do not have our other side,
What they call home,
With a name and possessiveness.
Neither have we seen those sides.
They are beautiful and lightened with bright colors.
And, we are just enlightened.
Nothing more abides.

 

And we seem to believe,
We, are in your family, in the legacy,
Witnessing the joy when you are brought home,
Supporting your backs when you fail and worry late at nights,
Strengthening your arms for all your fights,
Rejoicing and dancing when you bring home your brides,
Weeping silently in the mourns,
When you are carried in front of our eyes,
And then, a part of us too, dies.

 

Then somebody else comes up,
Paints us green if he wishes to,
Or spits on us, splatters us red with blood,
We allow that too.
Layers over layers upon us,
Memories, deeds, love, greed,
We bind everything and stand still.
For if we fall, everything will be out and open,
In this private world.

 

We've heard them say, walls have ears,
Let us tell you, they have tongues too.
And we tell our siblings nightly,
Who toddled, learnt to stand with a hand on us,
And whose legs lengthened enough to cross our heights through.

 

It matters to us, we are the sole bearers,
Of the truths,
That are too true to be accepted,
And we shall be called,
To bear testimony,
To read to them, those who cannot see,
Or wish not to,
What life wrote on our skin,
Who fell, and whose was the win.

 

We do not think of ourselves much,
We are dust.
Somewhat alike you.
Value ? Few.
For we chose our paths wisely,
Pointing at long, nameless, silent eternities,
Rather than precious figures of decoration and devotion.
More fragile than the spirit they intend to carry.
We are, but, dust.
Ever trying, not to be the boundaries that we can easily be,
We are working day and night,
Bearing everything thrown down at us,
Accepting with a bow, as a seer does,
Every word is wrong, every word is right.

 

So when you go,
Irrespective if you will come back or no,
Say your farewells,
Pay your regards,
Wave us goodbyes,
With choked throats,
Like your homes.

 

We shall not wait,
We shall not stop overriding of your paints,
Accepting your apologies,
We will absorb you, promise,
And your individuality, into an infinite loop.
You are welcome to find your pictures,
To know what lies beyond numbers as our labels,
Find here all your lost fables,
When our times are done.

alley walls home life journey story poem dust choice time

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