When the story teller itself lives in a story

(1)
Much before I had left this city, the city I was born in
Only to return to where I had always belonged to
There was another time; when the poet and I had never met....

Much before trash Hindi songs started making sense
And I dyed my hair and boasted of my seventh piercing
There was another time; when the poet and I were strangers in the night....

Much before staring at the moon became a priority
And smiling at the FOOL became a necessity of life
There was another time; when the poet had spoken of lunacy....

Much before I learnt of the games of words, and the games of mind
Only to overlook sweet heart “hide and seek” in the woods of past
There was another time; when the poet had sang to me on the telephone....

Much before I raped myself, and consoled screaming at the mirror
For having memories which I never ought to have
There was another time; when the poet spoke of all that is beautiful....

Much before time melted, and I wanted to claim my stolen years
Only so that all songs lead me to the lover, to the lover in the poet
There was another time; when the poet had stared into the space....


(2)
Much before the Dreamer had met the Lunatic
Much before the Lunatic had woven music with starlight
Much before the Dreamer had been strangled with melody
There was time when lullabies were beautiful....

Much before the perilous seed had grown into a mammoth tree
Much before the roots had spread into the Lover’s veins
Much before the stories were stained with scandals
There was a time when words were pregnant with thoughts and meanings....

Much before the words had faded into smoke
Much before the equations changed in all respects
Much before the letters were lost in the cacophony of this big city
There was a time when the song of innocence had filled the sky....

Much before the Dreamer had met the Mortician
Much before the Demon had spread its trap
Much before the dead child made honest confessions in the Mortician’s chamber
There was a time when the pathways of fairy tale bloomed with joy....

Much before the Stranger had sung of the blues
Much before the days of ‘Sex Lies and Video tapes’
Much before the Dreamer promised itself to let go
There was a time when breathing did not come with a price tag....

IT WAS A TIME WHEN THERE WAS PEACE !