Sometimes I look at myself as a fictional character,
A character in a fiction novel or a traditional folklore.
This vapourous reality that people adamantly love to call life,
Of love, they know nothing, and of life, they are unsure.
All that they see are distinctions and the opposites,
However, neither the pure does exist and nor the unpure.
They are mesmerized under the spell of cultural hypnosis,
I thought a poetry would work as that shatters the core.
However, everybody has their shells and defense mechanisms,
To keep their illusions protected they just ignore.
The character that I play is buried within a few pages somewhere,
The writer of whom is unknown and an inaccessible Signor.
Bury every page, the complete book, and the whole bookstore,
I just do not want to be a part of this book anymore.