eprived of height, but of pigmy in size
and far from being as straight as the ramrod.
Yet, I need not climb the sycamore tree
to look back through the tremendous vistas of the past
to see those awful deeds of mine
committed in my teenage years,
things I did, which I shouldn’t have done.
Forgotten, as they may seem,
but fortuitous events do stir
and recall them to the fore
where they tarry for a while
and murmur like the bubbling brook,
but not with the cadence of the roaring silence.
Now, should I not lay bare this deed wrapped in dark cocoon?
Stealthily, stealthily, and quietly, quietly,
Prowling like a fox near the chicken coop
and with my deadly weapon well positioned,
I shot a family of pigeons feeding voraciously on grains
and inflicted on them
gaping mortal wounds,
and did drown myself in a feast of laughter
as I watched them limp to their untimely death.
And one pigeon, as it lay motionless on the ground,
had its right eye oozing with blood,
while the other with fiery eye stared at me, with its beak ajar
as if asking what offence it had committed
that warranted my composing its obituary with my weapon.
No! Let’s not call it sadism
for I was only twelve, and under the grip of eclipse of wisdom,
but a good lad born and bred
by loving parents.
How then could I have derived psychopathic pleasure
from such a horrible act?
The catapult killing,
I thought, was a dignified bravery
similar to that of a hunter’s victory.
But do hunters not eat what they have killed?
Time remains the adorable daughter of truth –
And when the accumulated dust of ignorance
on the mirror of time had been polished,
the cruel definition of my deed peered at me and twitted
from the twists and turns of labyrinthine unconscious
reminding me of the graphic scenes of the past
when I erred.
Would the quilt of these despicable acts remain my portion?
Sometimes I shift the blame
of my teenage act,
not to the ancient Serpent that slithered in,
or that Monkey of the mind,
but to hormonal changes -
I mean that biological force that overwhelm teenage folks
prelude to their puberty age
and cause them to behave in a bizarre fashion.
Yes, that was the deed I did at that awful transitional stage
when kids put the cart before the horse,
and think they can make a connected rope
with mere grains of sand,
a time they play with match box
in a neighbourhood of casket of gunpowder,
a period they find happiness in the garden of ignorance.
I am now, a passionate lover of birds, meadows and woods.
I mourn, not murmur for those deeds
and place this poem-wreath solemnly
on the unmarked spot
where the innocent pigeons
breathed their last.