In the pillars that bear testimony to the time that has passed.
The steps that it has born, without a word being said.
Of the hopping from one pillar to the other,
The uncountable number of rounds and rounds around it.
I see me.
In the next generation kids, who stop by to see a stranger,
A stranger to his own home, his motherland,
Little knowing that where he stands,
Stood that very stranger who just appears larger.
And I see me.
In his eyes, in the shorts, in the slipper-less feet,
In the desires, the dreams and the ambitions.
In his inability to go to a school in the village,
And a life that resembles after effect of a carnage.
I see me.
-Kshitiz, August 2009.
