The sons of tyrants (in the classical sense)
Were too pampered and spoiled to make
Much in life. Bloated like soap bubbles
Blown by a vendor at the market, they pop off —
Very often — taking a small part of us.
I saw Maithree’s face fall
When the dictatorship called forth a son
Up the office, that, for Maithree, had taken long:
Years too long, now, to pause and turn to look back on:
Years condensed in a sigh and in a Maithree face fall.
It happens, I was told, when a new star
To the galaxy would pose — Orions of time
Black belts and all, get a tad serious;
Wrinkles, like gods, appear. Confidence
And expectations turn to cold feet and fear.
And the poser takes over as if all that preceded him was a ribbon
Taut and silken for his birth; his coming.
With a snap he just cuts open, and walks past the rest.
Suddenly, the media attention is on him — not you.
History, like a train, switches track, to a cruel signal.