"Chronopoliticalpalimpsest"


“Inkless Republic” 

I’ve met gods in secondhand bookstores,
watched their sermons drown in footnotes and dew.
V.S. Naipaul whispered, “Ruins aren’t history, they’re warnings.”
Salman Rushdie lit incense over graveyards of exiled truths.

Charles Dickens drank tea with beggars and barons,
while Edward Gibbon muttered, “Empires rot from the spine.”
Barack Obama, tired but intact, said,
“Hope’s a quiet protest, not a campaign.”

Friedrich Nietzsche screamed: “Live first. Then dare to think.”
Oscar Wilde smirked: “But dress your wounds in wit.”
Bertolt Brecht painted famine in shadows and bread,
and P.G. Wodehouse wrote laughter like rebellion in bed.

Bertrand Russell sat cross-legged, scribbling doubt like scripture.
Christopher Hitchens flung gin at God and Oxford.
Winston Churchill smoked history into speeches,
Shashi Tharoor rewrote it in postcolonial rhythm.

Edward Said hummed exile into every verse.
Michel Foucault traced power through veins of silence.
William Shakespeare stared at my contradictions—
"What’s your flaw, if not your mask?"

And Bipan Chandra asked, “When will your blood remember the land again?”
I burn every draft.
Only living deserves a final edit.



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