Rhyme's Crime

 

Aah, the era of hard talk!

Each and everybody vies for

The worldly stretch across the pages,

Depict which paged humanity;

Words, only words, queuing

Along the social misdeeds,

Still, each counts for millions!

Alas! The soft talk;

The words which lit up

Invisible illumination over superficiality,

The language which only

A flower can sense,

So few words!

Still, saying the epic tale

Of humanity's glory,

But, they fetch nothing.

Perhaps, the soft talkers have

The sixth sense,

Enables which the common five

To mix up and come out

As an apostle of reality,

Understands which nobody.

 

Why then a bard should create a rhyme,

If all dump it as an economic crime?

Where's Love Gone

 

O gem, why thou shone

Lovely in my eyes?

Why thou were born of aeon,

If beauty's reflection surely dies?

 

Even memories have gone

To the deepest burial,

Faintest memories sometimes moan

Over the love's funeral.

 

Why they say

That love never dies?

It, of course, does on the dooms day,

When someone so lovely, heavenwards flies.

 

What is the use of fragrant shower?

If you do not see the flower!

The Farmer and the Night

 

The night was spiritually lit; milky,

Aha such a beautiful night!

But, still not lucky

To dazzle in a couple's love delight.

 

 

Perhaps, alone with its misty milky light,

Hey Look! A farmer is there,

Irrigating his wheatlings amidst frosty bite,—

Ritual holiest by this agrestic seer.

 

And water here or there shines

To a chilly chide by the moon,

While, milky loneliness pines

For its brave son a harvest boon.

 

His feet numb in freezing water,

Amidst 'warmly sleepers' he seems a martyr.

Mysterious End of a Song

 

Life is a song,

Which soul singths;

The spirit playing matter's lyre,

Melody starting with first cry,

Goes on and on,

Till completion of the journey,—

Notes high and notes low;

Beats ecstatic and tragic most;

Sometimes fast and sometimes pensively slow,

The soul goes on playing

The strings in body's harp,

And then the barely audible;

The last twinge at the death bed,

The soul as if in a hurry,

Plays the mysterious rhythm,

Which, though, completion of the song,

Stands distinct for its abstractness.

Aah! Why is it that

Most of the songs end on a tragic note?

Why not the escaping soul,

Plays the most rhythmic tone

At that moment last?

Consoles which those eyes

Where pain creates furious storms.

Dyad, Reality Never

 

We smiled, dulcified with

Great display: the life song,

But alas! Eburine years passed,

Crony days ebbed, never to come again.

 

Crowned each other, thought

Two paths always go parallel,

But, we just tread side by side,

Only to slip away, at the opportunity first.

 

Blame not friend or thyself,

As we are 'friends at court',

It is a day, dawn to dusk;

We meet only to drift away.

 

Inevitable as it is, humans

Beat never the dust same;

All need own track,

Runs where nobody besides.

 

O man! Crib not about vaporous friendliness lost,

Never judge friendship by time,

Feeds it only on the present; future preys,

So, cherish only moments those.

Rhyme's Last Day

 

The year prepares to say bye,

Here comes the last day with a sigh:

'Pray I for the humanity's high',

Takes birth the 366th with a cry,

The dawn having a sunny try

Over the mist which lie

Silvery still around His 'eye',

Which struggle against the eyed sly.

O new rays upon facets awry,

Would'u make them diamonds? 'Ay'

Says the day's eye,

Oh! The eye from the sky,

Ponder over earthling's vie.

From the time gone by

Gods doth fly

On chariot rays, to lay by

Godhood and get terrestrial tie.

O Dawn, thou doth imply,

Pious start for all and I,

Say as thou a smiling 'hi'

To the love hungry; lover's eye,

And the obstacles face a 'why'

As thou hand over a gyve

For the fates dry.

Thy sunny camp; tight up a guy,

New delicacies thou fry

For the bellies where even the hunger die.

 

Day, thou handling a key,

To bring fatality to its knee.

Rhyme's First Day

 

Today is the 1st of January,

The day as if in love,

Black-silvery, it says sorry

To the cloud-veiled sun's shove.

 

A new day with a new aurora,

Week new with new lyre,

20th gone, now 21st opera,

And millennium new with aurum-aureola.

 

Yes! New Year's first day

With its rainy ray.

Droplets with winy chorus falling,

Ebriated, chilly air goes sailing.

 

And we get an excited shiver,

Like a river

In a cold rainy vale;— 

New drink for humanity's hail.

 

Trees dance to a moderate gale,

Leaves rustle to rainy tune,

Pouring as destiny's boon—

A new day too in some solitary dale.

 

The cold, wet new day,

Still with an aeonic silvery new ray,

Flaura fauna make hay,

Like a wave enters a new bay.