The regal parade continues to march on.
Many who exist in silent, will reach the end.
Few Spirited ones will depart near the next turn.
Corpses will be shoved by the strapping boots.
Blood stains will rust up on the parched land.
The glorious spectacle is a site to behold.
The regal parade continues to march on.
Disguised in the
hollow curves of
your eloquent words,
do I hear a vicious
hissing ; whispers of
a conniving heart?
Why do I visualize
a serpentine on the rock?
I’m not beguiled by
your deceptive talks.
By the tinkering of your
silver coins.
For I’ve on my hump back
burden of enough winters
to mark a
Devil in a sea of Men.
PB Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
“ The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
W. B Yeats
Out of ceremonial fires emerged,
tiny amber sparks of soot.
Fires were lit to please the
dormant demigod.
Saintly priest offered one thousand
ablutions to the mighty
demagogue , enthroned
on a regal Peacock Throne.
A neck was twisted, a cord broken,
out of hollow spine;
gushed ruby coloured brooks of blood.
A spectacle of blood-bath assembled
to sacrifice an Innocent at the
altar of a strapping few.
The sacred sounds of thousand conch shells
piercing through the eerie silences of deafening
decades, a mammoth Himalayan cloud bursted
in the Northern horizons over the legendary
kingdom of Ayodhya on the banks of
fabled Sarayu River.
The thundering clouds wrestled, the wombs
of giant Earth quivered, the regal blue-eyed
peahens ruffled their gilded
ruby feathers;
The sunken plants sprouted, oozing out their
heads to catch a glimpse of the exquisite face
of Sita with a silken complexion of molten-lava
daughter of king Janka of Mithila whose
whose beauty launched thousand
battle-ships…
Adorned in the victory lap of the majestic
embellished golden elephants, swimming
across the seas far-far away from the
ghostly dark dungeons of decadent
Ravana’s sinful Lanka.
After slaying Ravana’s ten monstrous
heads for the atrocious sins of holding,
his young queen captive.
Crowned prince Rama step a foot on the lush
lands of Ayodhya, where gilded golden domes
erected bowed to salute his triumphant
arrivals, after the exiles of the fourteen
extensive summers and winters.
Ancient gulmohar trees lowered their laden
branches and fluttered leaves like bells of
mythical sun temples;
A tear swelled up in the eyes of Rama
looking at the solar dynasty of his fore-fathers
banished by his own kin, reduced to
dwell in sinister dense woods chosen
for menial chores.
Rama knew the challenges that lie ahead,
sufferings he must withstand, answers he
must offer, the paths he must trod while
keeping his ideals supreme.
( congrats to all the devotees of Sri Ram, on the laying of foundation stone in Ayodhya, what a great day)
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Trudging on untrodden paths
in quest of mythical cities and
ancient tombs, leaving behind
familiar wounds and some questions
all under the gaze of azure Skies.
A midnight poet,
I sneak into raven
nights when they
give in to bottomless
slumbers , I see what
they turn a blind eye.
I endure much more than
what fall in my share.
I burn midnight oil to
weave sepia colored
webs of words in the
sooty corners of my
imaginary castles .
An undertaker I dig up
the icy pains from my
grey gravish heart.
You accuse me of taking
imaginary flights but
my only fault lies in the
annoying habit to feel more and
understand a little.
Yes I am emaciated and cold,
so I sew every night the cozy
blanket of my words to keep me
warm, the characters I
embroider stay awake to
keep the loneliness at bay
I am the midnight poet.
Dark clouds hovered,
the sapphirish Sun
came crashing down
in my emaciated lap.
Bushfires of prophetic
visions of dog licking
maggots spread on the
thin perforated roof.
The ancient ritualistic
fires had to be ignited
but it had already
begun, engulfing the
peripherals of the brain.
I went down with the
sapphirish Sun, It
was an absolute
eclipse.
While you were searching
my whereabouts,I was standing
next to an oak tree…
when all the leaves came out
of deep slumber and the wintery
dusk descended, it was about
time for me to lurk beneath
those ancient roots and search
in raven labyrinths, the meaning
of icy darkness that possesses
you and me and hibernate with
-in them till eternity…
