Quest: a poem
We
are always out on the streets,
out of our houses, our neighborhoods,
out of our houses, our neighborhoods,
in
quest.
Sometimes we wonder what if
we
accidentally hit upon it,
the quopping quest, that is,
the quopping quest, that is,
resting
feebly on the pavement.
The
work will be over then ,
the
quest will attain a finale.
But
that never happens.
It always reminds me of the
Knight-errant,
the Don Quixotes
Of
the world, and the Round-table
guys!
What
was it that they searched for: a
chalice,
a new hope in this rotten world?
And
did they find the jorum that held the carpenter’s blood?
No,
the quest is still on.
The passed on the dream of attaining infinity
to
us.
We
bear their burden,
we
carry on their expedition.
In
unnatural skyscrapered cities,
we,
riding on the horse-back of civilization,
are
always in quest of our infinitesimal dream
to find that grail
they could never locate.
