Batch of 1999 by Anurakt Srivastava
There was a wall
Something was written on that wall
Not something but many things
Many things were there
There were quotations
There were notes
There were calculations
There were love letters
There were schedules
There were names
There were lists
There were untold things
There were told things
There were nights and days
There were crying and prays
There were things that broken
There were things that were made
Everyone, please touch this wall
This was a wall of life
A sister and a wife
A pistol and a knife
This wall you couldn’t miss
A wall with that and this
And a man was writing there
He got a few pencils in spare
Pencils were spreading in the whole room
Brided pencils and penciled grooms
Today was the day he was born
Today was the day to morn and torn
No one was there to wish and gift
No one was there to greet and lift
Writing was the activity going around
Writing was what left and found
Writing was a magic there
Writing was triangle and round
One could eat the words
Words were tasty
Then one could have thrown up
Words were pretty dusty
Slow down show down
Blow down grow down
There were some living things there too
One rat, two lizards and insects few
Something was there out of understanding
Something was theeere inside
Balances were disturbed and mixed within
Feelings were broken and fixed within
There was nothing much to do there
So no one was near close anywhere
Only a man of humidity was writing
He knew the wall, he didn’t know nothing
Walls were decorated with text all around
Walls were decorated with falls all around
Falling and crying and waking up on walls
Falling and getting up and thinking on walls
Thoughts feelings emotions through structure of stones
Crying and flying and treasures and groans
There is always a lucky day
There is always a fucky day
He got one too
He got fun too
Nothing else he wanted but walls
He couldn’t notice other dimensions
Six years hadn’t changed much
Just a beard, a face and life as such
He wasn’t sad or sorry or anything else
He was just at the bottoms and hells
Sorry were the creatures of civilized world
Sorry for the creep, who curled
Sorry for the games life plays
Sorry for all nights and days
Getting rid is the toughest to do
Fighting the soul, either killing one or two
One can’t get rid of getting rid at all
Getting rid would get large by pieces small
Too many questions to keep them busy
Too many questions to keep them crazy
Many are useless
Many are fruitless
Can’t get rid of the cycle
Questions would keep coming
So this was the story of the wall-writer
This was the story neither sad nor sorry
This was the story of a day and days that followed
Fucking and lucking and dwelling and hollowed
You might meet some wall-writer one day
Do tell him that his mind is out
He might write it over his wall
He might cry with sounds or without
Something was written on that wall
Not something but many things
Many things were there
There were quotations
There were notes
There were calculations
There were love letters
There were schedules
There were names
There were lists
There were untold things
There were told things
There were nights and days
There were crying and prays
There were things that broken
There were things that were made
Everyone, please touch this wall
This was a wall of life
A sister and a wife
A pistol and a knife
This wall you couldn’t miss
A wall with that and this
And a man was writing there
He got a few pencils in spare
Pencils were spreading in the whole room
Brided pencils and penciled grooms
Today was the day he was born
Today was the day to morn and torn
No one was there to wish and gift
No one was there to greet and lift
Writing was the activity going around
Writing was what left and found
Writing was a magic there
Writing was triangle and round
One could eat the words
Words were tasty
Then one could have thrown up
Words were pretty dusty
Slow down show down
Blow down grow down
There were some living things there too
One rat, two lizards and insects few
Something was there out of understanding
Something was theeere inside
Balances were disturbed and mixed within
Feelings were broken and fixed within
There was nothing much to do there
So no one was near close anywhere
Only a man of humidity was writing
He knew the wall, he didn’t know nothing
Walls were decorated with text all around
Walls were decorated with falls all around
Falling and crying and waking up on walls
Falling and getting up and thinking on walls
Thoughts feelings emotions through structure of stones
Crying and flying and treasures and groans
There is always a lucky day
There is always a fucky day
He got one too
He got fun too
Nothing else he wanted but walls
He couldn’t notice other dimensions
Six years hadn’t changed much
Just a beard, a face and life as such
He wasn’t sad or sorry or anything else
He was just at the bottoms and hells
Sorry were the creatures of civilized world
Sorry for the creep, who curled
Sorry for the games life plays
Sorry for all nights and days
Getting rid is the toughest to do
Fighting the soul, either killing one or two
One can’t get rid of getting rid at all
Getting rid would get large by pieces small
Too many questions to keep them busy
Too many questions to keep them crazy
Many are useless
Many are fruitless
Can’t get rid of the cycle
Questions would keep coming
So this was the story of the wall-writer
This was the story neither sad nor sorry
This was the story of a day and days that followed
Fucking and lucking and dwelling and hollowed
You might meet some wall-writer one day
Do tell him that his mind is out
He might write it over his wall
He might cry with sounds or without