Deeply inhaling
the giddying fresh air of life,
The shower of peace
diluting all guilt and sorrow,
Slurping on the luscious slice of solitude,
Feeling the ease of life’s movement,
Safe and secluded
from the snooping spies of life,
Away from squeaking chaos and gawkish glory,
I walk on this solitary trail
in almost absolute freedom,
It’s such a beautiful sketch, this place,
Drawn with a child’s coloring pencil,
As of Now, I own this little world
with composure and comfort.
Her presence in my life
dissolved and crumpled
like a sand castle on a beach,
I think love
—with some dodgy warmth about Her—
is always seeking a human way
to first maim and then kill you,
She seeks a suitable way
to slaughter you with a sweet smile,
while you feel your entire self
has become love,
To dump you into the pits
while you ride the cusp of Her wave.
Silence louder than noise,
Her absence denser than her presence,
A flood of joyful pain
at her memories’ touch.
My horde of memories
stored in a ceramic money-pot,
Storing her essence
drop by drop in the form of lovely coins,--
the colors of spring in her deep, big eyes;
the eyes the gateway to her soul;
the silken, straight tresses;
lips full with a pout of feminine mischief.
The ceramic pot of memories,
I hold it safe against a chance fall,
It’s full, can’t have more coins,
But I try to push one more coin,
Some new coin, glinting with
the polish of the present times,
But you can’t recycle the rusted
coins of the past to mint new ones,
I want to keep it forever,
Because breaking it will scatter the coins,
And that would mean
losing even the illusion of still having her,
So the dilemma to keep it or break it
works like a see-saw cutting the heart’s meat.
A book,--
my scripture,
Having a love note
and a rose
slipped between the pages,
I don’t open the page
where the love note stays safe
because opening it might
tear it at the folding edges,
I don’t open the page
where the dry rose lies in its grave
because it will fall apart if touched,
Is it a holy scripture
or a demonic book?
For I love it so much
as to get scared to touch it.
Forlorn and friendless,
Heart fractured and ruptured,
Looking like someone
entirely made of grief and sorrow,
The dreams crumbling to dust,
Viewing this world
as an extension of my pain,
There I walk in the miserable rain
after having lain
in a dark corner almost slain.
Each step so heavy
as the dream of a shadow to acquire a form,
Memories come with a roaring incision,
The wounded petals try to
furl the sail in the spring night air,
A step I must take,
Walk I must,
Because walking a single step
away from the garbage
is like a miles long pilgrimage.
A grain turns to your morsel,
And maybe it was a bird, rabbit
or some other animal
that’s on your feet
or head or on your legs
or torso,
Be watchful,
For your carry the sad marks of
transformation on your skin.
You’ve to be a bigger person
to say sorry first,
You’ve to be a strong person
to keep the imagined reality
shorter than the imagined one,
You need strength of character
to retain the worst for yourself
and pass the best to others,
You’ve to be a very brave person
to still smile even while shrouded in sorrow,
You need to be really living
to find a meaning in life
even with pain entwined in your soul.
Happiness is like a meteor shower,
It hardly starts
before it ends,
But its brief sojourn
on the dark breast of the cosmos
is exciting, beautiful,--
the spark of life in a dead pool,
Like the verdant fresh look
on an old dusty face,--
the lush glimpse of hope, wisdom,
forgiveness and acceptance.
A small yet eternal book
without title and author name,
The lively flash of being
in the dark womb of nonbeing,
A smile on an impassive, sullen face,
A path-side wild flower
by a dusty path,
A brief shower on sands
kissing the parched grains,
A warm hug,
A friendly chat,
Some words of empathy,
A smile,
That’s what happiness is,
Brief and momentary,
but a yardstick for eternity.
