This foggy, cold midnight says,
The next sun will have fresh rays
that will warmly gloat over the wrong shades
bitingly, filthily draped around the
beleaguered, beggared, deprived mass of flesh,
Tomorrow it just won't be mere trash!
A beginning it will be, all new and fresh!
I stand upright in my reverse world,
With my own shape uniquely curled
as per my own unchained ways,
Your nights are my days,
You are free to scorn or spurn
or even try to burn
my freedom wings,
O thou vain kings,
futile will be thy taming strings,
How can you tame someone whose soul sings
the songs of formless love,
Eagles you can't hunt this dove
because when you pursue me
you have your legs where
your head ought to be.
It’s a rapidly greying, gloomy world
and the Lord has to hide and peep
through a hole
—a thin sunbeam through a hole in clouds—
to spot any trace of
truth and honesty
that may be lying around.
Here I own my entire identity;
no need to just run after
fractions of myself that are
eulogized as pathways to the ultimate.
It might be that this ‘I’ in me
breeds my wickedness,
But doesn’t it sire
my art, writing, music and painting?
Basically, the main recipe of the dish
involves dishonesty and fraud,
The so-called honesty
is just a tiny ingredient
used as a spice while frying.
But however bad the times are,
the table full of rogue, fake, swindled dishes
won’t be serviceable
if not for those tiny sprinklers of honesty,
That’s the power of honesty and goodness,
Its little molecule can carry
mountain loads of lies and deceit.
Big Brother,
O thou mighty cult leader,
I’m afraid you ‘rule’, not ‘serve’,
You majestically float
above the ground realities
and cast a shadow
which clouds our minds
with downsizing rhetoric, jingoism,
ideologies and vain principles,
No wonder, we turn blind followers
and lose ‘independence of thought
and spontaneity of action’,
Our collective mind gets primed
for a doctored reality
where you turn the ultimate savior.
I’m not surprised that
you have an inherent distaste
for free thinkers, intellectuals,
artists and philosophers,
You just hate anyone
who doesn’t fit in the
the mold of your doctored reality.
Amid the burning sands of June,
when a koel sings a sweet song,
it’s nothing but mother earth’s
pining melody to cajole father sky
into clouds of emotions and precipitation,
He then embraces her
with his showery arms.
And smoldering in this heat,
dear reader,
here we wait for the monsoons.
