We are less human
than we think
in our need of love,
We are nearer to raw,
animalistic aspect of nature
as we go hunting our own needs,
which we present as
the selfless bouquet of love.
During our hunt
we carry oldest, pristine fears
and like little animals
we seek safety
in the cave of love.
Once the mind-noise stops,
it opens a door
to the deep melody of soul,--
Nature which is the sum of
all the lesser sums.
Her smile
spreading into the sad air;
her laughter
a ripple in still waters;
her words
an assurance in chaos;
her touch
bringing life to a heart
that had turned rock.
A sad, soft and beautiful touch.
A succulent transparency in her whisper
bringing light into sorrow-swept eyes;
repairing a leaking heart,--
a check dam on the stream of pain.
Her soft but alert presence
filling the unfillable restless void.
Washed with her memory
here I stand
happy and sad
with all that is
good and bad.
The moment is frozen
but it breathes,
Slowly its stillness moves
and gently leaks into air,
The eerie stalemate is broken.
Reality is just a
series of such moments,
Just like cinematography,--
a moving picture;
just snapshots of perception.
How lucky I’m
even to stand amid my supposed
heap of miseries—on land,
It’s a treasure because tight now
someone is drowning—in water;
looking for a toehold
of land—dear earth,
It would be his treasure
just to stand on a garbage dump.
I might find this day drab and boring,
while someone would give all his wealth
to get another drab-most, boring-most day
—just a day.
How lucky I’m to live, breathe,
see, walk, touch, taste, feel,
while so many lose
their privilege to even these.
How lucky to have a home,
while so many go hunting
for a filthy corner
and put a plank, board, metal sheet,
lie under it
and call it home.
The clothes I wear,
the food I eat,
the people who love, care and smile at me;
even those who hate me
because they know me at least,
There are scores of those
who don’t have any of these.
I’m rich and lucky in being alive,
I hold a treasure,
What makes me see it?
It’s just ‘plain old’ gratitude,
The moment I lose it,
I lose everything,
Then I’m just a cribbing,
miserable, poor, suffering victim.
So my gratitude is my key
to the infinite luxury
and treasure I hold.
Hate consumed love
and life’s colors got bleached,
Dreams got washed away,
Smiles died,
Colorless people
despite all the external coloration of
fashion, make-up, design,
vibrant exhibition and thoroughfare.
Lives crossing path
for a meaning,
Lives drifting apart,
Again for a meaning,
I suppose.
