The Road

“Arun Veembur: A young writer hailing from Kerala and raised in Bangalore has tragically died while trekking in southwest China. He was working on a book here.Arun Veembur, 28, sustained serious injuries from a fall on Monday while hiking in the remote mountains near Dali, a city in the Yunnan province where he lived. It took a rescue team until Tuesday night to locate him. When the team arrived on the scene after a day-long search, it was too late, his friends and officials said.”

Death, a red lettered word
You were wandering all the time
through the road, less traveled
talking to history,
hearing it's whispers
Your mind was restless,
like a man in prehistoric era
You gave your insight to history
death was the reward
the impotent time was restless
it became standstill, sometimes fell down
the crying wind
dancing light
unknown language
all followed you,
but you were alone
gazing at the red flag all the time
you haven't got any sickle
but you reaped the fruits of history
History is mischievous
sometimes it's ugly too
the road to history is not built yet
You were alone
but the writer in you were not
he always liked adventures
and ran towards bullets
The bulletproof jacket of time was helpless
you died, with unfulfilled dreams
your words didn't come out
they rested forever in your throat
like a small bird in the nest
learning history is dangerous
loving history is even more dangerous.