A Rhyme Written Across the Jungle

 

The meditative flow

Of this small brook;

The waters serene and slow,

Move bearing a pebbled look.

 

The jungle seems

Spellbound by its beauty,

Like a lover dreams

About those curves and lips pouty.

 

And the trees

Watch the damsel with gleeful eyes,

Softest of the breeze,

Slow, slow the silent majesty flies!

 

A sparrow dips its small beak

Into the generous, smiling water,

Thirst goes away! And seek

Refuge where water doth falter.

 

This slim feminine Goddess,

Blesses everything with its soft touch,

Aha, extreme beauty seemst too modest!

This wild maiden is careless such.

 

Thus, the brook flows with its beauty,

In harmony with the time,

The universal flow doing its duty,

God, how great is thy flowing rhyme!

Alas, the Spring Too Far!

 

Frigid fate gone to ferocious winters;

The winter with its frosty bite,

Shivers where warmth’s might,

And failure lets loose its hungry hunters.

 

Aah, the ice cold reality!

So ruthless for vein’s warmth,

And the forceful fist disarmth,

Lost is manhood of its valiant beauty.

 

The blizzards seem so frightful,

Oh! Superficiality crumbles deadly,

The avalanche hurries madly,

To follow the failure for its handful.

 

Long Ago the summer passed,

And autumn too with its windfalls,

The winter but seemst too harsh,

Will spring ever blossom where death danced?

Alas, the Orchid Too Far!

 

The rising rays fell upon a dream,

Shining future got upstream,

And expectations windily blown,

Nobody, meanwhile, listened destiny’s scream.

 

How painfully he nourished that dream!

The sweaty toil to nurture

And water the bud for flowery future,

How rugged the chosen path seem!

 

The path to that

Lush green orchard,

For whom he went diehard,

While, the fate chuckling for a bet.

 

Went flowerily on the path,

Following the flower of life,

Alas, the ‘predetermined’ preparing its knife,

To cut the bud for its bloody bath.

 

Reached he when there,

With his feet all bloodied,

The bud lay already buried,

And the orchid gone for cemetery’s bare.

 

God, why the sincerest efforts fail?

Perhaps, victory too loses

To huge efforts, which give it repeated bruises,

The unsung heroes, whom it doth hail.

Journey with the Autumn

 

Autumn, become my friend,

Thou holding my hand,

Take me through the windfalls,

To help me forget my own tree’s bereaving calls.

 

The tree where summer’s ripenings,

Too fruity, heavy for the branch’s likings,

The air through their fall singth,

While, thou make me follow thy grayish path.

 

‘See not thy own windfalls’,

Thou say, dodging thy falls,

And push me from my tree,

So that I become mourn-free.

 

And the autumn path brownish,

Summer’s warmth vanish

Joyfully from fruits, leaves,

Vow! Fairy for its beauty not grieves.

 

Happily I run with thee,

Away! Away! Where another season be,

Where trees glee with fruity prospects more,

Where snow melts to welcome the spring at its door.

Too Far the Birds have Gone!

 

Where have the birds gone?

Too many of them used to roam

The sky over the villagers’ head,

Yesterday, I saw a couple too sad,

Are many of them dead?

 

The parrots, pigeons and sparrows;

Humanity’s flowery arrows,

Have they gone too far?

Away! Where man is not at war

With the nature, –

Awaits where future

Like a self imposed zoo,

While, vast treeless tracts rue

For the natives now exiled.

 

Sometimes, the winged visitors come

To solace the mighty tree gone dumb,

The houses now without corniced crevices,

Oh! The niches, holes from the wall

Enter the plastered souls,

Architect, thou grow too tall,

Too spacious and monotonous fouls,

Accommodate which only human,

Oh! Why thy constructive acumen

Sprouts only from the nature’s grave?

 

The birds thus try to reach

Where we still have not,

To escape our civilizing shot,

The chirps and the singing shrieks

Which the kids imitated to sharpen verbal beaks

Now die and fade out

Amidst all this urbanizing shout!

Enlightened Moon

 

How mysteriously the moon

Was shining last night!

Dim, oblate, struggling half,

As if a fallen hero

Trying to arise for another fight.

 

The great souled!

Waging still a righteous war,

Though shadows were subduing light,

It did not seem faint hearted,

Went on fighting, without caring

For the infamy about the look,–

The popular esteem of a full moon.

 

How divine was its even-mindedness!

Exempt from pleasure and pain,

Loss and gain,

Thus, free from the grasp of opposites,

This scion of warrior class

Went on with its dispassionate work,

While, the sense objects around,

Scattered sleepily across the ground,

Find this truthful seer,

Quite unfathomable and worthy of jeer!

The Night in Revolt

 

The sky is too starry today!

As if the night too wants a new ray,

Whitish shine of mother milky-way,

In her lap numerous stars play.

 

Stars visible to the horizon,

As if the night has arisen,

In revolt against the dark; with a vision,

While, the darkness browbeats for the treason.

 

Like martyrs the aerolites go,

As if to show:

Burn brightest, but not bow

Before the dark, which destiny casts over the show.

 

Their escapades over blackness' chest,

Aha the life lived best!

Too much fiery light, then salvation rest,

Break they out of binding circle; much to destiny’s detest.

 

The sky with its vault starry,

While, the dark seemst wary,

Its agitated darkness scared of the enemy hoary,

Oh! Feeblest shine of farthest star seemst so fiery!

 

Thus the night glows in revolt,

Depredations in every nook corner, to bolt

The dark behind the strongest door, and halt

Its march; shines every eye with a colt.