Not the empty cupboard and the game
Nuts and spices in the cupboard lie awake,
nutmeg rolls around in the corner, untouched,
grandma’s predictive value goes idle,
You go berserk after the day’s toil
moiling after stinted environmental politicking,
can you go bang against the sturdy walls?
nay, long to embody yourself into a lump
of clay, but a spirit subject to negation, for
the clay breaks into pieces. Before that,
no feeling, no angst, no aging and no desire:
yet, the diabolic devil called Birthing clamours
around you, surges in leaps and bounds
ever since the creation,
spices spy through the glass jar, what for?
Nordic ambitions still poking high,
the dividing wall echoes the feeble cries
of a new cherub,
The unanswered question lies
Can anyone stop the ordained game?
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