Batch of 1999

by Anurakt Srivastava

There was a wall

  Something was written on that wall

  Not something but many things

  Many things were there

  There were quotations

  There were notes

  There were calculations

  There were love letters

  There were schedules

  There were names

  There were lists

  There were untold things

  There were told things

  There were nights and days

  There were crying and prays

  There were things that broken

  There were things that were made

  Everyone, please touch this wall

  This was a wall of life

  A sister and a wife

  A pistol and a knife

  This wall you couldn’t miss

  A wall with that and this

  And a man was writing there

  He got a few pencils in spare

  Pencils were spreading in the whole room

  Brided pencils and penciled grooms

  Today was the day he was born

  Today was the day to morn and torn

  No one was there to wish and gift

  No one was there to greet and lift

  Writing was the activity going around

  Writing was what left and found

  Writing was a magic there

  Writing was triangle and round

  One could eat the words

  Words were tasty

  Then one could have thrown up

  Words were pretty dusty

  Slow down show down

  Blow down grow down

  There were some living things there too

  One rat, two lizards and insects few

  Something was there out of understanding

  Something was theeere inside

  Balances were disturbed and mixed within

  Feelings were broken and fixed within

  There was nothing much to do there

  So no one was near close anywhere

  Only a man of humidity was writing

  He knew the wall, he didn’t know nothing

  Walls were decorated with text all around

  Walls were decorated with falls all around

  Falling and crying and waking up on walls

  Falling and getting up and thinking on walls

  Thoughts feelings emotions through structure of stones

  Crying and flying and treasures and groans

  There is always a lucky day

  There is always a fucky day

  He got one too

  He got fun too

  Nothing else he wanted but walls

  He couldn’t notice other dimensions

  Six years hadn’t changed much

  Just a beard, a face and life as such

  He wasn’t sad or sorry or anything else

  He was just at the bottoms and hells

  Sorry were the creatures of civilized world

  Sorry for the creep, who curled

  Sorry for the games life plays

  Sorry for all nights and days

  Getting rid is the toughest to do

  Fighting the soul, either killing one or two

  One can’t get rid of getting rid at all

  Getting rid would get large by pieces small

  Too many questions to keep them busy

  Too many questions to keep them crazy

  Many are useless

  Many are fruitless

  Can’t get rid of the cycle

  Questions would keep coming

  So this was the story of the wall-writer

  This was the story neither sad nor sorry

  This was the story of a day and days that followed

  Fucking and lucking and dwelling and hollowed

  You might meet some wall-writer one day

  Do tell him that his mind is out

  He might write it over his wall

  He might cry with sounds or without