Orchestra

By Dr.B.Senthil Visagan

The debate:

Behind the curtains,

Debates tuned

About the tune

Of the Strings and the pipes

And the rhythmic beat of meat—

With sycophancy

Dancing to the tune.

Who is better?

Violins, or Trumpets;

Drums or Piano!—

Each so unique that

They sing many a melody

To remove every malady

Like the Strings playing

At my heart strings;

The Nadashwaram

Making the air dance

As I breathe in;

The 88 soldiers in file

Be it black or white

Keying in to even make 

The alphabet musical;

And the Harp so windward

Keeps me leeward

From the sorrowful storm

Looming around me.

All of them distinct

Yet this distinction makes

Their coming together indistinct.

And in all this debate,

Even their soulful individualism

Screeched with no warble

To wobble the troubles.

Conductor arrives:

Upon the curtain roll

All on the Grand Stage,

For the night,

In the spotlight,

A dead silence

With frequencies

Of the debate coursing over

The palpable strings,

Idiophones and keys;

Etching to beat the other

With their unique beats.

Seeing all of this,

The conductor descends

To guide the ruckus

That has so much impetus

To ward off the devil;

The conductor waving hands

Directing each temper into tempo

Using the strains of the brass

To strain out the strains of life,

Making the differences indifferent

And all garganey into synchrony

Whilst changing the cacophony

Into an united harmony.

Orchestrating one whole Opera

For all to  ballet.

Mirage:

All of this image

To me is nothing

But a mirage

As I fiddle my lyre

Around the inflamed pyre

Of the social construct,

Just as Nero did

For there is no Hero abound.

By Dr.B.Senthil Visagan