Crying flowers

 

Flowers are not supposed to weep,
Even if their petals are vandalized
and raping storms
spit all their fury on their fragrant face.

It is just for beauty's sake, they say,
And tears on its petals are not tears,
These are unholy signs of its revolt.

So they just expect it to smile,
While their poisonous fingers
greedily tear away petal after petal.

Listen, you merciless fools!
A flower bears the pain most!

Even though its unfading smile 
never allows it to surface 

on its smiling face.

But a flower weeps 
unseen in the dark hours of night,
Humans, the dew-laden petals
that you gratify your senses with
are in fact
the tears of that soft petalous self.

Last rays of a lamp in the night

There are so few drops of oil
in the lamp of life,
The wick burning so feebly
and the unbounded dark
chuckles with chaos and strife.

The dark with its armfuls of gloom,
While the sinewy rays with hardly any bloom,
Pitted against the battlefield full of soldiers of dark,
Like a poor thing under death's arc.

But the lamp has to keep the struggle on,
Past its prime, when brilliantly it shone,
Now the juice of its wicker's veins gone,
And the dark has come with swiping drone.

This tiny dot of light,
Slammed in the dark's face like a blight,
Now slowly, slowly coming to its end,
After the flickery, lively trend,

The fire which survived on its will's juices

will open its eating sluices
to enter the wicker's matter,
looking to eat some fodder better.

The pyre will then become the lively show
and those last flickers will try to blow
the dark off its hinges,
Painfully the dark cringes,
And gustfully it throws
a furious whiff to eat the last embers
amidst the wick's ashy chambers.

The light thus gone,
The sovereignty of the dark prevails,
Darkness layered over the ashy grey,

And there lies unseen a thing which once was,
The light, which was guiding truth
now eaten by the dark's canvas.

Imperturbable are the dark's laws,
The winners even with infinite flaws,

The light rules in flashes,
Then the mighty one's dark saber slashes.

Givers and takers

The flower has something for itself;
something for the bee,
It has beauty for the poet;
nectar for the bee;
seeds for the survival of its mother plant.
The bee too has many things,
For itself and others,
It has honey for its kids in the comb,
It's the tool of procreation for the plant,
Its honey sweetens many human tongues.
But what does a man have for others
which comes naturally to a bee or flower?
He has everything,
yet nothing,
If he has love,
he has everything,
If love is hidden in him by the clouds of ego,
then he has nothing to offer to anyone in nature,
He is merely a sucker,
A one-sided sucker, a master-taker all the way,
The miser most, who doesn't give back anything.

मोक्ष

 ज्ञान के मंथन के बाद मौन ही मिलता है। 

और मौन देता है मोक्ष का रास्ता। 

उसके बाद ना कुछ महंगा, ना कुछ सस्ता। 

ना हार, ना जीत,

बस गूंजता है परम सत्य का गीत,

और उसके बाद क्या hcs, क्या ias और क्या फकीर,

सबकी एक सी तकदीर।

सबकी एक जैसी लकीर,

ना छोटी, ना बड़ी,

बस समय की एक सी निरंतर घड़ी,

ना अच्छी, ना बुरी,

जीवन की एक ऐसी धुरी।

खबर

 अजीब सा है इस खबर का साया,

एक बार हंसी और फिर रोना आया।

Flowers changing to stones

Love leaks out of my body, 

drop by drop,

Her cuts are incurable,--

the non-healing holes,

The ever-existing outlets 

for the mellowness inside 

to seep out and turn stones!

The beam of hope

A ray

and a day

making hay...

The axis

There is no goodness bigger 

than that we spot in others,

There is no bigger evil 

than that we generate 

by our own hands,

There is no bigger holiness

than that we see in someone's heart,

There is no bigger sin

than that we plot in our mind.

The usefulness of thorns

In the mist-veiled silence of a dream, 

I sleep-walked into 

the crazy grasp of a thorny bush,

Nature's way to see us clearer,

We just need a prickly bite 

to see the reality;

to know more 

and be wiser.

Crystal clear vision

 In the naked folds 

of the darkest night, 

I clearly saw 

the fake, shining, artificial clothing 

hiding my real self.