THE HEART THAT BLED OIL

July 2012

GCT workshops

Now having decided to sacrifice rest my life into the churning clock (again gears in there), I failed to accept that there is beauty in the junk that stands still. One fine day waiting for my bonafide to be signed I heard someone speak in the workshop. But it was not any man who spoke it was a kind of vibration which attracted me magnetically to stick my pinna to the heart that bled oil…

I stood on the silver sands,

Will the water paw my feet?

It must not – said a voice in me.

You are made of sickly sheet!

I walked on the good-will green,

Will butterflies kiss my hand?

They might not – said that voice in me.

Will they? In your lumber land.

I ran to the withered woods,

Will my hair waltz with the breeze?

It better not – said the voice in me.

Your life stands at final freeze.

I impugned back to that voice,

Have I been of so no use?

Not your guilt – said the voice in me.

Man is fickle, Changes profuse.

I had discovered the beautiful land of machines. It’s right that mechies say, MACHINES have hearts.

Mechanically touched

Gowtham