Falling in a Pit

 

Too far and deep

I have gone into the pit of gloom,
And lost in the cavernous folds

of the impending doom,
Even the brightest big suns

now appear too far and take puns,
Faint stars these now

and just flash their inspiring rays,
Feeble rays reaching me cannot take out

the ship caught in treacherous bays,
I know the futility of the beckoning light,
Even in its brightest folds outside,

hope was always out of sight,
Now I go deep into my night, 
With nobody as a witness to my plight,
All cherished dreams out of sight,
A wingless bird that tried to fly

but then crashed from its struggled height,
Now I just silently walk into

the dark hold of my night,
Alone
and forlorn,
The musicality of my soft moan,
Carrying me into hitherto unreachable zone.

Last Death

 

Dirty song is life, peeled off

throats of those who sing this grisly verse,

It is a curse,

we get it due to past births’ misdeeds.

 

Why was I born? Only to

continue breathing like a statue,

every cycle pinches; why all

live to be murdered at each step?

 

I aspire to live, but always

lynched to death, which comes never,

Leaves me tossing and bleeding,

I pray for the divine death only.

 

Skinny dog paddling for life,

With a mute look in the waters dangerous,

Alas, destined to be drowned!

A bird with chipped wings I am.

 

So much takes out every breath,

Appears this nature feeding on me—

The soul escapes nostrils every second,

I hate all, drink they my soul’s blood.

 

Cursed never to act or imagine,

As these always fall on me;

Strike like a thunderbolt,

And there I lay tossing in pain.

 

The time will come when I will

become passive to the hunter’s arrows,

Nothing will remain to make Him happy;

Die when will I for the last time.

 

Alas, it’s a dream, not to be true,

I know, I won’t meet the death last,

as long as I wish for it,

As I’m destined to fail even in this wish.

The Eulogy, Vanished

Frowned upon he was,

As failed he all expectations,

Own was fault,

Lived he on others’ dreams.

 

Like a slave he was,

Wasted life whole;

Did as the master wanted,

Died then empty all.

 

Always he cried hoarsely,

Sand song theirs,

Bleeding were his own

deep inside the imprisoned self.

 

Eulogized he was then,

Renowned became the grave,

Rot inside which the flesh

of the dead heart’s unsung song.

 

Fame he took it to

crush his own heart’s freedom,

Played they with it,

While his soul cried.

 

Expected they still more

from the slavish being,

Crumpled which under the demand,

A living grave he turned.

 

Now uncouth history he was,

Same was the grave,

Alas, eulogy had vanished

like his powdered bones in the grave.

The Lost Light

 

Stumbled I across

the rugged mountain track,

Tall pines lingered above,

The gigantic peaks snubbed,

I felt the smallest there.

 

Cold air touched peaks,

Higher they appeared still,

Shrivelled I and crinkled,

Passed clouds above swiftly,

Confirmed piteous lowness mine.

 

Trifling I felt,

Took them as ghosts around,

Subdued I was,

Less by the body weak,

But more in the mind.

 

My eyes saw piteously,

Sick was my soul

in getting fooled by the pessimistic eyes,

Aching were my legs,

More by the weakness imagined.

 

Earlier, the sun illuminated

the whole valley alongside,

Living were all except me,

Now, setting it was,

And imminent was gloom.

 

Knew I, the lost opportunity,

Wasted I the entire day

in seeing desperate dark,

Now, manifold it was,

Realized I, the lost light.

The Orthodox Proverb

 

Work hard, you will get a reward—

It’s drilled deep in childhood soft,

A saying it’s only then,

Simple minds find it the elders’ trick,

Who any way must find fault

and ordain so many things unplayful.

 

The same proverb spreads its tentacles,

Grows it with the body,

Burden it is not now,

But a necessity to survive,

And they obey its command,

What a devil! Free by now.

 

The adults are serious enough

about name, fame and glory,

Dedicate they themselves to a cause,

Create a glass palace so huge,

Crumbles which one day,

Splintered pieces cut through the flesh.

 

The evil survives still,

Now through the sympathetic pout,

Except the sulking self, the universe parrots it,

What can the poor soul do?

If not aspire for the palace again,

Alas, the fate repeats itself most often!

 

Success is rarely the outcome,

If it comes, greater is the endeavour,

somehow doomed to fail another time,

And if not, failure is loosened

from the garb it had taken,

Both lead to the same age-old futility.

 

Battered is failure through pompous words,

To get ready the wounded,

And obey the immortal proverb’s command,

Dies it never, only we perish,

Even the dying is wished to

succeed in the life next!

 

There is no other way,

But to fall in its trap,

It’s supposed to last

even after the death,

If the saying has an exception,

Then please, tell me one!

Mother

 

So many things exist, to whom

one must shed the pungent sense of self,

But the murky self always neighs,

Making a nimble, smart, selfish, social dummy.

 

Stretch such things till the stars,

Whom our desires turn to dust around our feet,

Although measurable not,

Mother is but the loser most.

 

Machine is this society,

Operates on input-output principle,

Vary the losses among different relations,

Ever-giving mother is but the giver biggest.

 

All her relations take it through:

Parents as the ‘other’s property’,

Outshines husband as the hope last,

And children fatten on her maternity.

 

Mother of pearl she is,

Harder the shell, the better it is,

One day, sulks which empty, the pearl gone,

Suffers she with the hollow title of an ideal mother.

 

Most imbalanced is her equation,

Fattest is the oaf on the opposite;

Melts her in childhood,

And befools in his youth.

 

Mowed down in the old age,

Obsolete and ignored manifold,

Dies she before herself,

Without any solace even from the past.

Betrayed Self of the Indian Soul

 

Runs today this country, but how?

Gazing up to its stars, who

sowed the potential seeds of mass destiny,

Oof, defeated now by its masses own!

 

Their self vouched for a nation great,

But now self-betrayed most,

Self-defeating today’s youth

listen not the soulful cries of those martyred.

 

Ripe fruits they were,

Thrust themselves in freedom’s crusher,

Blood came pure, while the fleshy mass

and powdered bones smiled in the dust.

 

Those dying heaps of flesh dreamt

a rainbow-hued nation,

Alas, we stomped over their blood’s carpet,

With monstrous hoofs of every sort.

 

Torn out dream it’s now, smiling in some old eye,

While we run hoarsely, sometimes just to

pick up certain dusted piece

on some anniversary or the other.

 

Nehru’s ‘productive hands’ throttle others;

Non-violence simply an impractical antonym,

This nation will wither; its rulers show

moral corruptibility extreme; subjects do the same.

 

Gasps this nation for life, its body

sixty years old, clad in wornouts,

Holding its staggering and crawling billion souls,

But for how long, I am afraid to guess!