The tribe of Libra, with sweet obliging smiles

And momentarily sincere promises

Will leave everything to God

In His, after all, very well-run heaven;

For there is an easier way out for them

-down the well-worn path of Least Resistance.

 

And then, they are surprised

Even offended

That “things” go beyond superlatives

From worser, worsest, “£$&^%)_(*&&!

From the personal to the im, escalating

 so that the waters in the earth and sky dry up

Famines strike, wars loom

Dollars soar and fortunes flounder

And only the black-marketing sheep

Grow fat on their ill-gotten gains.

 

I used to think that selfishness

Was one of the leaster “sins”.

Surely, murderers, rapists, muggers, thieves

Were a savager breed?

(Sagitarian naivette wasn’t in it!)

I used to think that one could solve any problem

By turning on the taps of charm

(status/charisma/intellect or whatever)

That one could talk anyone, oneself included

Out of any fix.

 

Then |I met the macro-verson of my own mini-self

Lady Libra herself, a la collective, face to face…

…well, we’ll admit,

 in person she has oodles of persuasive charm

 (or do I mean pervasive?!)

And certainly she’s peaceable

far too idle to bestir herself, the fact is;

For as long as her own immediate needs and pleasures are met

who cares what Tomorrow brings!

That’s’ again, someone else’s department

Washing her own hands of the blame.

For, hiding behind that reputation for “indecisiveness”

Is a steely self-will and purpose

Regenerate or un.

Little wonder  that Scorpio

Is where she runs to, heads for, ends in.

 

So there she goes

The ugliness of her selfish soul

Well hidden behind Venus’ pretty face

And that friendly, hospitable, articulate front.

Easy-going, tolerant, fair indeed!

-Scrupulously, bloody-mindedly so, even.

For, in the last resort

These are only academic, theoretical behaviours

To do with seemings and appearances

And if it comes to the crunch

There is always another point of view or side to resort to.

 

As a social, group entity, on behalf of a communal need

She won’t rise to the occasion

But will retreat, bandying excellently rational “reasons”

Which divert from her subtler motive

Which is nothing but the heresy of seperateness

The blasphemy, the betrayal

of Libra’s high command to Love, to Share.

Her own personal survival is her only real concern.

 

And  be sure, she has well assessed her position

And is innately equipped to ride the storms of fate

To keep her balance, her cool when others cannot.

For when her own interests are at stake

She transforms from unruffled insouciance

To a tigress, a whiplash

An iron-willed fury, lethal and merciless.

 

And then, give her some time

And what does one find?

But that her dress grows raggy

Her glossy looks, drab and dull

The sheen in her eye lack-lustre.

Something sinister, desperate stirs

When she finds her comforts and wishes jeopardized.

She eyes each person/situation for its worth

To salve, solve, save herself  - from her own dire self:

A ruthless monster lurking behind that lovely face

That must get its own way at all cost

One way – or the other.

Though Ofcourse, if it is possible to get it the legal way

The nice, civilized, pleasing and virtuous way, well and good

But well and bad, if not.

Forget about the social graces bit then.

No holds barred, everyone for himself.

 She is a wolf.

 

Selfish?

So when the food grows scarce

It’s hey-day for the hyenas

And whose to blame them  - Nature’s well designed dustbins.

Libra herself spawned them, nurtured them, bred them

In the festering recesses behind her aloof, conscious mind

All Watergates and whitewashes her exclusive domain.

Fed on her loveless selfishness

Her own fruit sown, returned.

 

 

 

1988