An Old Tower
The fears haunting the metropolis,
vampires thirsting for human blood,
remind me that I could never be the pilgrim I wanted to be.
The metropolis shouts in a thousand tongues.
Its neon-lights are staring down,
like a monstrosity you can' t run away from.
This is the city that never sleeps,
but neither was it fully awake ever.
Where do I go from here?
I know it with certainty,
that once out of this body
I will never trade my soul for these maddening spinwheels
ever to come back again.
I know where I will go.
I will go to the old tower seen once
where it stood
in the mysterious landscapes of Van Gogh's fields;
its rising silhouette touching the sky,
its feet awash with pilgrims' tears,
a solitary reaper cutting a path
with an old scythe held in the wrinkled hands.
Sushama Karnik
The fears haunting the metropolis,
vampires thirsting for human blood,
remind me that I could never be the pilgrim I wanted to be.
The metropolis shouts in a thousand tongues.
Its neon-lights are staring down,
like a monstrosity you can' t run away from.
This is the city that never sleeps,
but neither was it fully awake ever.
Where do I go from here?
I know it with certainty,
that once out of this body
I will never trade my soul for these maddening spinwheels
ever to come back again.
I know where I will go.
I will go to the old tower seen once
where it stood
in the mysterious landscapes of Van Gogh's fields;
its rising silhouette touching the sky,
its feet awash with pilgrims' tears,
a solitary reaper cutting a path
with an old scythe held in the wrinkled hands.
Sushama Karnik
Vincent van Gogh, (The Old Tower in the Fields, 1884). (Oil on canvas. Private collection)
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