Saturday 14th February 2018

by Siddharth Soni

I haven’t yet recovered from the utterly unacceptable result declaration in the morning. After a conflicting stress on my brain about how would just the result unearth, I am left lingering in around seventy percent, with mathematics appallingly illustrating a penniless performance. Other let-downs may all, persuasively be justified by the rule of circumstances. Scoring in English, however is absolutely not for a philosophic, pacifist brain like mine. I’ve abandoned the “mark-fetching” English for being a writer, and carved so carefully a philosophic side of writing. Just to be admired by thousands of my beloved Indians.

Now only consoling myself by few fictious tempers, I have this to say:

Wandering in a few forlorn trails of life, I betray my intellect,
I sob the scholarly highbrows, between
I fail to withstand, the vigilant test of life,
Seep as a sneer, tide as a hero,
My efforts remain unseen,

Behold a score, so lowly, so modest,
So slender, seemed the path to success,
Thwarted, perturbed the gashing initials, I see
The corner of my eye, tussle in redeemer,
And survive the ample blood to shed,

Only then, wondering why the world so poor,
Inherit the wits, yet unexploited, unruffled,
Winsome was the earth, now held in flames,
Evicted our endeavor, now burning in resentment,
Seep as a sneer, tide as a hero,
Blister as a dissenter, write as a revolutionary,
I question, “What makes the man,
Talent, toil or circumstances ?”

For no gentleman would ever answer, the question too imperfect,
I tell you, O human horses, “Not is the question, but are the gentlemen.”
They fail to resurrect my subject

Traumatized,
Siddharth Soni

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