Life
It is good that
we must cultivate dreams,
But most often
man’suncertainty and destiny’s
certainty screams
to shatter them to pieces.
We, though must hope
to evade the deadly anchor’s
drop,
It is our futile, and not so
futile, duty to
carry the life’s ship through
heaving waves,
Wonderful! So many winds one
braves!
Like smoldering coal in the hull
the passion ever craves,
The tiny flicker braves
against the mightiest swathes of stormy
dark,
Storms, meanwhile, play against
the timber strong,
In the wooden frame, but, many
dreams throng,
And enjoy the journey, though,
unfinishable and long!
Time’s worms eat the timber,
And stealthily doth eventuality
limber,
to sneak through the destiny’s
holes,
Longly piled up agony of the
storm furiously rolls,
Carried thou so far and wide;
tattered are those soles.
We carry a mountainous bulk of
hopes
encased in some ash and tear
drops,
How meticulously time thrashes
its harvest,--
From buxom ripe fruits
it reaps only peelings and
stones,
From life’s crop
death reaps only the lifeless
drop,
The majestic reaper
wants but few grains of soil
from all the juicy, lifeful,
thriving tissues.
Still, we have to live
and we need to hope
till that final mop,
We know that the slate will be
cleaned up after all,
But we have to play our part in
life’s ball,
For crammed will be the hall
tomorrow as well,
When in
other bodies life will dwell.
Whom Should I Blame?
What we do and what we don’t,--
May be it is our choice,
ormay be the hands of providence
guide or misguide?
Don’t know
whether it is our action’s rejoice,
or partisan fate’s prejudice?
Stealthily we try to ensure
the credit for the good falls in
our own bag,
And if things go wrong
our stage-manages throng
to put all blame on the old hag.
Whatever we may think of
ourselves,
We’re, but, the good- or bad-chanced
kids
of the parental—earthly and other
worldly—topsy-turvies,
If not so,
What person is there to wish
directly his doom;
Which life’s light voluntarily
seeks
to be extinguished to gloom?
Still—less directly and more indirectly—many
against their will are brought to
the wrong end,
Where the expected destination
does not exist not even its name;
Where the undoing swiper chuckles
in all its fame,
And the half-willed animal
gets tethered to a peg for a
chained tame,
Then follows the great game,
Many try to put each other to
blame.
It is but a futile mockery,
Mere verbosity cannot bust
the secret of that trickery.
Ever-lorn to justify ourselves,
Many-a-time we put the blame
squarely on destiny’s elves,
saving just digestible morsels
for ourselves,
And feed mammoth dose of
unwanted garbage to the
uncomplaining lady.
What does it matter
if the blame lies with us
or it is borne by the
speeding wheel’s crush,
The loss, after all, is a loss,
Whoever is the causing boss.
To me, either both of us go scot
free,
Or both
are put under the accuser’s glee!
Victory
O thou poor lady of rich virtues
and big but spent eyes,
Thy rosy, soft, tempting lips
bear the blood-drawn scar of a
timeless, incessant, ever-greedy,
lusty kiss;
On your fair cheek, tireless
pursuer’s mouth;
Muck with saliva and pitiless,
sadistic hiss;
Your majestic head,
heavily diamonded with
uncountable,
innumerable, romping homes and
wins;
Smartly, smirkly are tied under
this crown,
thy mercilessly, heedlessly,
heartlesslytresses
tamperedby the fingers committing
sins;
Thy firm, upright breasts have
been
bobbed to excitement so many
times
that stonily they no longer feel
the lover’s lick,
They now feel the pathetic kid’s
sickly blood-suckling.
I wonder after so many
love-romps, intercourses,
love-makings, rapes, smotherings
and sex games
—the victories—
what thoufeel in the area of
focus of such tireless passions!
Is it still the titillating
sexual ecstasy,
or every endeavor is as repulsive
as the stealthy, predatory
approach of a cowardly hyena?
Thou were once the Goddess of the
realm of
commitment, excellence and
diligent striving-forths,
But for thousands of years,
wars were lustily ravaged against
thy beautiful body
and thy blissful skin was
bombarded with
human passions and pestilence.
If the lofty destination all but
becomes
finalsteps of the mucking path,
Mud will definitely clung at its
own apron,
As the stained devotee falls at
its feet
after all those gutted baths,
And in its insurmountable
helplessness
the Goddess of yore has been
turned into a prostitute,
Though they still worship it in
its oldphysical avatar,
But that soul banished and left
destitute,
The herculean endeavors and
efforts
of these throbbing masses
go on squeezing from all sides,
Thou in a tight corner,
Dressless and pitted against the
wall;
Only that small, soft hand hides
thy honor,
Thy Godly spirit now driven back
to the
edge of a fearsome precipice,
Thou are no longer the Queen,
for thy own fate seems
worth decidable by the throw of a
dice.
The poor lady now stands all
exhausted;
Tattered, battered, bruised at
the lowest tide,
The most coveted, prized virgin
now sulks like a dejuiced,
unsuitable fruit
ready and waiting to give its
stone and hide,
What can I get from thou O poor
lady?
Thy treasure trove is all but
famished now,
You are left with just
monstrously compromised Satan’s
diamonds,
Even my beautifully courting
pursuit
will seem a poor robbery and
loot,
So here I step aside
from the blood- and
treachery-rutted path,
and think of some long-drawn,
circuitous path
that can take me
—after a life-long hard-worked
journey—
to an isolated place
that may provide me thy pure,
unstained sight!
