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This is a poem about a man caught between his duty and conscience |
A TRAVELER WITH A BLOODY KNIFE I am a traveler and I am walking with Geeta in one hand and a knife in the other I am walking As though walking is all I do They say I started walking as soon as I was born I keep walking and I still have Geeta and knife in my hands I keep walking and My hands do their jobs mechanically Did you know the job of my hand is to kill? I keep walking and With my every step My hands keep killing, murdering My own Geeta Geeta becomes bloody My hands become bloody I myself become bloody I keep walking still In my every step Every time, again and again My Geeta is murdered My hands Kill every verse, every word Every letter of Geeta Still I keep walking And Still my hands are carrying geeta and knife I still go on killing My hands are becoming bloodier My hands still carry bloody Geeta and knife I don’t stop May be I have known not to stop I keep walking But now I possess no more Geeta Only the knife remains with me That bloody knife But I keep walking And my hands are still mechanically doing their job Now I myself am being killed I myself am being bloodied But I keep walking Dragging my wounded and bloody body And Carrying in my hands That same bloody knife Note: Geeta is the holy book of Hindus which was propounded by Lord Krishna to Arjun |