By Ravi Choks
They call me a machine..
I beg to differ.
When time was still young,
tinged with testosterone,
hued butterflies grew wings.
When they were still young,
cold reason took
a sharp logic cutter
and trimmed their juvenile wings.
One day,
a pounding heart
mustered some dare
and muttered-
"Like him
and like her,
want to let our
hair down, a wee.
Pray, do allow me."
"Nothing external
shall ever come
between me
and my subjects,"
replied mired mind.
"But-
testosterone
is not external
to us," heart thought
it had got a good riposte.
"Testosterone
is not-
but she,
whoever she is,
is."
Mind was firm.
Unused
and unwanted,
the divine hormone
went out of
harmony,
to send odd chills.
When scores of years
went into deep closet,
heart wants to stop
and cry.
Yet, headstrong head
continued to ensure.
And heart beats still—
frail and weak.
Then
(as the cliché goes),
one fine day
mind went infirm-
"She,
a thing of beauty,
is a joy forever.
Since she's
part of our natural
world, we can
internalize her."
"There's
no more hair
left to let down,"
bemoaned withered
and dehormonized
heart.
They call me a machine-
I beg to differ.
My heart beats still...