Old Wound Poem by Saroj Padhi

Oft' I wonder
why time and again
I'm drawn
to lick old wounds
despite myself,
when arrested time
sulks like a dolorous wind,
rattling bones babble
a prayer in dark;
not being able trundle back,
morose I sit
not being able
to ride the horse of happiness
on way to peace;

back I'm caught
in the awful journey
of modern times
with its thousand indecisions,
restless revisions,
lack of certitude
and mercenary calculations,
that doesn't allow you
to be yourself in the world
of mutual suspicions.

Why do I tend so oft'
to grovel
in scented ashes of youth
that mock me?

Today I decide to bury
this heart under some old book
emanating the musk of your love
before silently withering into eternity,
in some kind of death
it seems
there lies a little certainty.