The Saviour

 

When I think about the past,

Time’s load overcast

Rumbling clouds stretching vast,

So many beautiful things died; now aghast

Me remember them as alive for the last,

Alas, but life is so fast;

So many beauties annihilated in the merciless blast.

 

At each step a graveyard,

Present’s efforts fought hard;

Like versified truth from some bard;

Then coffin cradled, which once flowered

And whom this hasty runner favoured,

Now when time hath devoured,

Me prepare its next food; step as forward.

 

How impermanent, transient is life!

So many full flowers cuts time’s knife,

Still at each futuristic step we arrive

At something where newborns thrive,

And for more and more we strive,

Alas but, sacrificial presents only for the past’s survive,

And future’s tiny, trivial, momentous drive.

 

Are those graved beautiful flowers dead?

Whom no eye would ever read,

No! Seeds they are which time had

Furrowed along a path by someone who bravely lead,

Bloom they will again afore some eyes sad,

Whose present-past coexist and future dead,

My graved beauties then'll relive afore that bent head.

 

His senses lying rusting,

Still something in the dust goes bursting;

Swelling to Himalayan husting,

While illusion’s death hissing;

Dying before newborn rising

Above father’s head, where Gods watch praising.

The Saviour

 

He fell violently in love;

Big, stormy, illusionary ripples got a love-wreck,

And like life’s instinct when death doth attack

Only her image waved around him now.

In such a storm only the heart doth row,

While poor mind fell off the deck;

Logic struggled for its life behind back,

And storm intoxicated heart throbbed upon bow.

 

Logic but is such a slave;

Struggled it for a ‘follow’.

And storm when subsided to show the captain’s

Loss of direction; whom to look for a save?

Fortunately, mind stood there with a glow,

Saved, thus, from further delusionary pains.

Whose Success are You Going to Feast Today?

 

O sweet success, fragrance of nectar,

So many flowery moments got

Themselves killed for these clappings far,

Wined throats now celebrate a lot.

Suppose the flowers had lost for vain,

And bad fumes cometh out of the passioned flame,

That single bent head had bore pain,

Too many pocked noses had sought blame.

Aye! What one standth to lose or gain?

From the mob which gulps only by the name;–

Benumbed by victory; failure maketh insane;

One’s abhorred content changed there to lusty fame.

 

Thus the story of success-failure goes,

Prickles too many for a single rose.

Flower when thou did not know thyself as such; I saw thy beauty bloom much.

 

I watched a flower since birth,

Then a small plantlet greenish,

Whom eyes won’t distinguish

From the myriads born on the earth.

Grew it thus on its own mirth,

And devoid of any coronary wish,

Arose it then only affectionate kiss;

What a free hand for beauty’s birth!

 

Afterwards, I saw it budding;

Beauty which earlier knew itself not,

Got now aware of its budding heaviness,

And once small hatchling,

Stood, now, proud for flowery shot

By those full scented petals fresh.

That Unknown Place

 

Some deep forest it was somewhere;–

Oak, ash, elm, beech, sycamore,

Embracing, climbing vines dare

Heights where love opened door.

 

There love need not be made,

Rather it existed stoically,

And not as desire’s aid;

Stepped it out naturally, not frolically.

 

There leaves shone full green,

And grew pale after youth’s bloom,

Floated then downwards unseen,

Ha! O death, thy own doom!

 

The place, creator of its own destiny:

Accident, predetermination there fail,

Basks timeliness of instants many!

Wonder, whether they ever caught time’s tail?

 

Silent to the very core of silence,

Save some silent symphony by

Some bird larking by some unknown sense;

Noise of every sort there die.

 

Too unfamiliar a place,

Even to the sun partially known,

Curiously, thus, passes its face,

Doubting its fatherhood own.

 

Cloud crops fall into a world;

A world which its geography fathom not,

And in rumble-tumble they get rolled

Without hurt; Aaha! Cradle-caught.

 

The place where past seemed so evident,

Still present so independent!

And future with much secure accent,

Heavens! None from the trio lost with head bent.

 

Distance found itself unitless

Before the spread of that place;

Who can measure utter bliss?

Greenery that perplexed its face.

 

It looked as the centre of all goodness on earth;

As if God Himself comes there sometimes,

And rejuvenate all that mirth,

Persists which there as heavenly rhymes.

Flirtations with Life

 

Here I come to this small puddle,

Sit on its shore and feel water,

Scorching sun, wind hot, dust fly,

Oasis driven, I but ogle at the water only.

 

Boiling pot it seems; vapourising layers,

Few lives drop in it suddenly:

Sparrows few wet feathers there,

Lifefully they escape the rising dead water.

 

With my feet in water and

Chin domed upon hands beaming knees,

I see life flirting in dying water,

Skin hard, meanwhile, feels molecules going up.

 

'Life is here or there?' I think,

Mirages over ponderous small waves,

Oh Yes! Water dies but plays still;–

Flirt we have with life; death weds in the end.

Summered Sparrow

 

O brownie sparrow small,

Thou fly with harvested dust,

Aware thou become of nest’s call,

Her beak pants there with maternal trust.

 

Collect thou grains lost,

Noon time numbing heat; feathers beat

Upon peasant’s toil; now thy host,

Thy valiant jumps and crafty feat.

 

Sun-baked grains hardest,

Still, thou cut with cordial chutts,

Sawed Shakti makes thee worthiest;

Kitchen, water and eatable nuts.

 

Over parched terrain thou dart alone,

Agile, vibrant more, despite water gone.