The Fragments Abroad.

             The Fragments Abroad.

        My dreams in an alien soil,
        Were a few butchered chops of meat;
        Lean white,and thick red they were,
        I can not shape them into 
        Hens,goats, bulls and pigs.

        Things broke up or boomeranged on their being
        Stumbled upon or blocked at the dead ends.
        There was a stifling sense of incompleteness,
        Like emptiness and dryness of an overused well.

        All moves were intriguing,at all times
        As lumps from ill-conceived wombs;
        Or as plates of half-cooked food
        From the fast food ovens.

        Years are nothing but a calculation of the calendar;
        A reminder of the half built rungs of the ladder.
        I am neither a winner nor a runner up
        In removing the blockades of perception.

        Holding the chops on hand 
        Without an indication of their character,
        I am looking at forms without their DNA clues.
        Will my native moorings hold on
        To fix the roots to their soil
        And make out the figures from their chops? 

                                         P. Chandrasekaran.