It’s a story of a soul.
This soul didn’t know it’s goal,
It was searching within a hole
Hole of gives and takes
Hole of profit and loss
Counts, countdowns, races
Yet somewhere buried within
This soul- a buzzard concepts of whole,
Had seen care where it was free,
Pure and priceless,
Stupid, she was told,
Breath, flowers, water – all is sold
You can weigh your gives in gold
We can bind your gifts in tinfoils
And present to the world
An alloy of obligation to care bind in gold
Acquire it for your growth spurt and give it up for storage of soul
What can you give for pure love?
How much for god?
Pray this place still have some fools left
And we still can’t fill our hearts with gold
We still can’t mourn with silver
We still can’t buy divine,
Or mothers will start charging for nurture
Fathers will start charging for protection
There are ways to charge one
For their creation, sustenance and destruction,
So now, how much should I charge for the poem ??
– Rupika Moitra