THE UMBILICAL CORD

 

 

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History is an umbilical cord
That entwine around the neck like a noose
While we sleep and dream.
The tapping sound of the boots
Running through the chest
Are the sounds of hoofs on cobble stones.

Somebody have blackened the truths
And somebody have white washed the lies
And together they formed as wrinkles
On the forehead and formed a blackhole
No light can penetrate and expose.

When the Orion blinks its eye for a jiffy
The footsteps falters and the earth underneath
Is washed away making a fierce sound.

The head stones in the cemetary
Only reveals the date of births and deaths.
But never account the events that happened
In the past, nor the changes in political maps
Nor the boundaries of kingdoms or empires.

History is an umbilical cord
That entwine around the neck like a noose
While we sleep and dream.
When the noose tightens and we suffocate
For air to breath , may be the present
Will beckon us to join and find ourselves amidst it.
Till then will wait and see……

KUNJUBI

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