Oblivion in paper and pen; and the self-exile: A poem 

A river of words parted like hair, 

parted by a Moses of impromptu 

And a country of ideas, in the desert, is born 

But could Adonai bless the Negev, enveloped by storm?! 

Could the Dead Sea ever have more spring than salt 

if the circle of the tormentor never came to a halt? 

We could subsist on the granaries of memories 

if only the harsh chicanery would not claim our territories 

I am curious of the nouns, verbs and adjectives 

that have been used in timeless parlance,  

But does the ink of stone dry up and crumble 

An adverb of struggle be made likely to tumble 

Would there be a helpline? Or would it just be in vain? 

The inconsolable healthline from the helpline like wasted mane 

I can be a verdant forest, but am I a compost of defeat? 

I have shown such patience and resilience, a superhuman feat! 

I know the pronoun to blame; it has a very misleading name 

So, I abandon all; live in solitude’s self-exile, oblivion’s paper and pen 

Even the self-medication is relentlessly rendered redundant 

You can see even its label can have no brand name 

The criminal hijacker puts paid to my defenceless game 

So let none broaden the fulcrum of my dreams 

They have been tapered by me and cut at every seam 

When treachery doesn’t expire; and the wicked relentlessly conspire 

I can only have aspirations that bring doom to my nations 

Did Lord Ram have an easy vimana-like Garuda? Is there any more a Hanuman? 

Even Sita has become the earth that’s resigned to its treacherous fate!