(In tough times, one needs to seek solace in poetry. And that’s what I am doing. Almost 25 years ago, on an autumn evening, I found this poem on the wall of a friend’s home in New Delhi. My love for this poem was instant. Later on, I asked another common friend to write (rather copy) the poem on a piece of paper and give it to me. He was gracious enough to do it for me. Since then, I have changed cities, jobs and homes but this poem neatly written in my notebook has stayed with me. My attempts to search this beautiful poem on google have not been successful. Hope, you all will enjoy this)
Everyone walks the way he can,
Some with their chest ajar,
Others with only one hand,
Some with identity card in pocket,
Others in their souls…
Some with the moon screwed in their blood,
And others with no blood, no moon nor reminiscence with them.
Everyone walks able or not,
Some with their love in grumbles,
Others hidden in altered skin.
Some with life and death beside,
Others with death and life astride
Some with a hand on some other shoulder,
And others on the shoulder of another.
Everyone is walking because he is walking,
Some hopeful with a person,
Others meeting none on the journey across,
Some through the door opening,
Or so it seems to the road,
Others with a door on the walls or dream on the air perhaps,
Some not having begun to live,
Others too not having begun to live,
But one and all walk with their feet to chains
Some on the road they themselves made,
Others on the ones they didn’t make and all those they shall never make.
——— Roberto Juarroz