Drapetomani

Deep and darkening galore
of dilapidated sheds.
Treading on diligent dullness,
lives the man I call master.
The grass on his side greener,
the smile on his face familiar.

Whiff of fresh paint.
Built on an elevation
is his decadent abode.
To the door ajar,
do my bovine eyes wander.

“...a flood hits northern parts of...”
“...but I still love you...”
“...new version is available for just Rupees...”
Disrupted voices boom
from channels being switched
listlessly, on a TV aged six.

Here comes master
says Dhena, the milch cow.

Tethered to a pole, I am.
Master's will, the halter
around my neck. I am.

Here comes master
dragging along his baggy clothes.
Here comes master
wearing a hat as old as him.

Circles I draw.
Confined by certain circumference,
I draw.
Defined by length of rope
of master's choosing, I withdraw.

Babhru's ruminating.
Wasn't much of a talker,
that one. His kind,
the ploughing ones
usually aren't.

Master's limp visible,
gathering stacks of hay.
He lays it down,
one for each of us.

Generous, am told he is.
Grateful, I moo and I am ?
Am I ?

“VRISHA... VRISHA!
Snap back to reality.”
Precarious wanderings of this soul,
Vicarious rantings of a cow,
Sun has set on your flumadiddle reverie.

Strands of blue hair
dancing in Fall's breeze; I am.
Tattooed on left wrist,
a cow in Aztec pattern; I am.
Running from hotel rooms,
an escapist's dream come true; I am.
I am? Am I ?

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