From the tiger country marshes we had come 
Here on the road to  night,  a lone policeman
Whistling at  lack of people at such an hour.
Our scholarly tomes are on ecology conserving
But we are more on ferreting out spy secrets
Of skull-digging neighbor country spy outfits
For interior ministers who speak to us in secret.

We looked at ourselves versus enemy spies 
Always after us in far off cities , to cause hurt
To our body, afraid of its quietly spilling beans
We  knew  when all  those beans were to spill
On the empty roads of night, with no crowds.

All our life we believed we were some body else
Not a history man, a doctor of letters from far .
We dissembled a child who cried while laughing
Fancying ourselves as keeper of state secrets.
We therefore had to keep up several pretenses
About our being a conservation man at night.
It is so tiring to pretend you are somebody else.

Now we know we are somebody else in the dark
Back in the green room for donning a new role
Where we no longer need to dissemble or fidget
Wearing  rusted masks that do not fit our face.

(About a schizophrenic relative of mine who died recently when his dissembling had become too much to bear)

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