Tiny little droplets of desires,
evaporating on the
wings of bluish helium;
like morning dew.
Life a struggle, to extract honey
out of sacks of wild weed.
Tag: Nature
Parade
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.
Devil in a Sea of Men
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.
Ozymandias
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.”
Innocent
“ 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.
Autumn Leaf
An autumn leaf
you slowly withered
away….
Carried on the chariot
of the cruel winds,
the pigment of life
eventually faded.
Stretched on the pyre
of sandalwood clouds,
you looked peaceful!
Wish could keep a
you a leaf, in a glass jar,
a souvenir forever.
With my hands clasped
in yours, we will
laugh together at
the frivolities of
this world.
RIP my beautiful
Man! RIP!
Ram’s Arrival (Ramayan)
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)
Myopia
Once again spiraling down
the bottomless pits of
all-consuming thoughts.
Is it the high tides in the sea
or simply a patch of dark clouds?
May be it’s the Northern winds
curled up by silent thoughts.
May be the dystopic reality or
my aging myopia from whose
prism , I can faintly view the
blurring horizon at whose
mid-point, saffron daylight
ceases into the kohl
darkness of night.
Sailing to Byzantium by W. B Yeats
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
( My favorite poet, W.B Yeats )
The Day We Became A History
The day we become a history,
the sepia air dampened the lush
green memories,the hollow houses
stood empty while the gleeful
ghosts of the past occupied shallow
graves, that lazy brook saw it all
with her tearful eyes, the azure skies didn’t
budge from their stands while the
ancient trees remained testimonials
of the day we become a history.