The Man

1
Quest of the Eons in my bones
And through my souls,
And I hark to that vainglory
Always in my nerves;
As I am the Man,
The first seed of human
Springs from my sperm.

Lost in that vainglory
All my horizons…….

Limited they are,
Banks are there
Even for the whopping sea;
Still I thought me as amaranthine ocean,
As the marrow surrounding every terrene.

End of my valor there,
I confine at that point.
And there begins the self, Own!

Because I am the Man,
The semblance of Frankenstein
And my own Being.

Thus
I am the Manus of Indus,
I am the Prophets of Desert,
The self-claimed journalist of the Times
Or the scribbler of the Eras.

Thus
I am the Kansh of Mathura
The slayer of my sister’s Flora;
As I am stingy
I am greedy,
Crossing the rim of love and mercy
I seek verve in the Blood,
That of those rosy Buds.

Time and again time edify,
I sense the lessons of boon and strain
Or I discern the Black-Hole of Power;
My father caged there,
I owe to that blood of my brother.

They are
May be Ugrasen,
May be Bimbisar
Or the captive Sahjahan.

As
I am the begetter
I am also the bulldozer.
I am Aurangjib,
I am Ajata Satru;
Because I am the Man,
The semblance of Frankenstein
And my own Being.

Thus
I am the Rama
I am the Yudhisthira,
To call for my Glory
I forfeit…..I forfeit
The Sitas and the Draupadis
In the flames of agony
Or in the arena of gaming.

2
Where ends man’s Valor
There rouses the Femininity;
Drubbing that delicacy
I build the hocus-pocus Fraternity.
Because I am fragile,
I am in style.
I am the self-claimed Monarchy.
I cage in the Turret of my own Glory
In the hands of self trickery.
There not the Light of Insight,
Only is the Black-Hole of Malady.

Still
Eon after Eon
I am the Man,
Dense and Callous;
Still
There is Love,
There is Plea;
But also there may be
The alluring Lechery.
Hence
I am the Nero,
I am the Cupid of Avidity.

But yet
I am the Krishna;
There is no yearn,
Nor desire.
Only are revered Love
And the long road of Sojourn.

Because I am the Man,
The semblance of Frankenstein
And my own Being.

Though myriads of Woman
Sensed the Shadowy of Man,

Though in every part of Narration
The vainglory of Man
Begets thousands of Dead Sun
No Skies who all have;

Still there are men
For the love of women.
Still there are men
For incessant poems.
Or there are men
For platonic loves.

Qualm is there,
But it is the truth.
True, such women are there.
(Those quest for love)
So true are those men,
They can’t be veiled
By the hazy Azure.

Today
I unearth the trickery
Of those men,
Ancient and elderly.
Adam explored the Knowledge Tree
The alleged Sin incited by Eve;
Telling that old tale
The Manus bygone,
And the Prophets
And the Clerks of Cyclic Return
Crowned all the Woman,
The vehemence of the Man
As the Second Class of Human.

So today
I protest
All those Partisan;
I protest
All the Man-made Decorum,
The harms did by the Male to the Man.

Humans, are the Men
In so far as the Women;
There are fiends in Man
So there are in Woman.

Yet not men are
The gods of all Viles
As women are not
The goddesses of all Wiles.

3
I am the Man
Thus the Lover.
I too wish
To floor the Gateway of Life
By the doting Olive Layer.

Amid that
There is the feeling
There is the intricacy
Of longing for intimacy.

And there are
Wax and wane,
The ripples of Life.
Those are the verses
No tune can harmonize.
Once if I come across to Freud
I will query
What is to be a Man,
How much is the twinge;
Is it in so far as
Seeking the Ecstasy beyond happiness.
The respond I know
There won’t be any,
As the unsolicited answer
Itself is my query.

There is Woman
So there be
The Love of Man.

As I am the Man,
I profess amid Glory
With my composite Sagacity,
That
All the doors of Acumen
May not be open
Even today for the Men.
Yet
Alike the inward Woman
Be the inside of Man.

In the pastime of partition
The Male overcame the Man.
Insolence to the Woman
Makes the Man a Selfish Shell.
There is no Flee
No mercy for those ever Dead Men.

Thus I say
I am the Man
The primordial image of Melancholy,
Qualm follows me forever
Each step there is Hell-fire
I am the Surname of Agony.

Freedom, if there be any
From that agony
For the Man;
Only it be
Through the love of Woman.
That Woman has no Physique
Nor that Man is a Cupid.

Yet
Amid the tiny calculations of life
Masking by all Wiles,
The Man and the Woman
Are the two Parallels.
Banks of the same Gloomy River,
Have alike Hazy Azure.
There is no Freud,
Lone be the Ceaseless Sojourn.