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Paper Clips

Identities

Stubborn

she insisted,

‘I will not

name my poems’.

 

No baggage to

tie them down.

Let them fly

or dawn or disappear

under their own

weight.

 

Free to be this, that,

whatever else

or even nothing at all,

in the intimate space

they inhabit,

with every one

they meet

afresh,

each time.

 

Like them,

if we too could

erase the labels

donned,

brands seared,

peel off each

layer of outer identity,

roles, history,

guilts, accolades -

acquired, attired

armoured,

affixed…

 

Remain unmarked,

untagged, unshackled,

pristine,

then

each of our encounters

may be a

new beginning,

with infinite possibilities

shaped only by

the aura

of that very

moment.

 

A dewdrop

mid-air.

Birds

Apparently,

news about certain

birds forgetting

their own song,

is causing flutters.

 

Did those notes

knot up into

a tight pill

and get swallowed,

whole?

Or melt, bit by bit

like a tangy

candy, leaving behind

just a  sweet stain?

 

If their music

was inscribed,

an innate genetic

code - inseparable

from its very breath.

how is it

that they are now

mimicking other birds

in their landscape,

embracing

new vocals as their own?

 

Whatever is

'own song' – anyway.

Another learnt

harmony, from

long ago,

its origin,

dried out on the way

beyond horizon.

 

Will there be

a time when

all music

is either appropriated

or synthesised,

all melodies merely

borrowed, absorbed

tunes,

adapting to the

new terrains we inhabit?

 

Those may seem

more real than

the original,

as, along with them,

we transform a bit

with each new

twist

in the tail,

with none

left standing

to call out the difference.

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