The delicate quill

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the delicate quill scribbles
lore of sordid life
amidst the society of racial protagonists and authoritarians
few drops emerge on the paper
red scarlet, yeah ! they are grievous tears
fallen by tormented excruciation.
the words sharp, pierce the autocratic system
which hath remained despotic since ages and years
..will the ink paint the page
and eyes of hypocrites in true colour
wiping away squalid tales
and etching a prognostic message
for mankind and humans…

THE SONG OF MOCKING THRUSH

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She is the mocking thrush
who on the high end branch
sings and perch
laughing at the world
on human errors…

Ah! she imitates in a hoarse voice
satirical,the cons of a
power game
and money launderers of
the affluent race
she hums the low note in tears
twitching her beak in anxiety…
hypocrisy ! thy name
of every face which dons the mask
while innocents become prey
to the hungry mouths of
greed and misery …

in melancholy ,she serenades
about the empty stomach of thousands
homeless shelter innumerable,
falter who on every path
while
a gory dagger butches
life
somewhere in the dark hours
echoes intermittently when the din of
explosion
haunting the survived ones;
wonders the mocking thrush:
“Oh! how I wish to sing a song
of love and serenity
shall I ever sing a tune
melodic and blissful”,
hiding amidst the camouflaged rue

ASK THE EYES

 

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ask the eyes that saw the black nights

of hunger

the only shelter, broken thatched

torn rag

and a sole shrouded cover.

ask the eyes

which witnessed death

while bloomed the buds

in innocence

toiled hands at work

to earn and fill one’s

stomach

ask the eyes

those which wept in loneliness

fought against the storms unseen

every bent, a new challenge

on every road

when hope was killed.

ask the eyes

which fear love

perhaps they think,

it vanishes

like the fragrance

of jasmine in air…

submerge they

in plateau of solitude

alone and bereft…

ask the eyes

forbidden

forsaken abandoned,

neglected, ignored and abused

the grief of survival

in distress, sadness,

and despair,

failure ,devastation or

battles …

ask the eyes

who have ne’er got enough

of anything

what is your identity

what is your sect

what is your caste or creed

what’s the name of your faith?

what is comfort, luxury

what ‘s your goal next

what’s your favourite destination

which holiday you liked the best

the silent eyes

in disbelief

will utter

only truth

Flap the wings harder !

 

What’s next, cries the heart

which colour of sky shall

the eyes perceive,

 wrath of scarlet or

peaceful azure…?

 

flees the life of soul

faraway in the lap of hills,

in dense forests ,

lost in green…

where a ray of light cannot pierce

how would you find me,

world,

here I hide

amidst the woods unknown,

better than

 lives seen…

 

In dark,I won’t shiver,

although the eeriness  will echo

crickets, bees, wild beasts

in their kingdom I roam.

 

none to rule, or proclaim

my clipped wings hurt in pain

years in the cage golden ,

stripped my strength

I wish to fly again…

Here I come

free I soar,

flap the wings harder , O soul!

 

The covetous gambler!

What do selfish wants and gruesome lies do to a human? The stature of a human being falls below any level and exhibits the egocentric character. For once, the person descends into the pit of suffocation, where conscience plays its role,hereafter.

The Monologue of a covetous gambler !

 

gossip I in the corridor of lies,

dwells where the queen

burning in envy bright…

the timid , quiet truth sits in a corner

watching the powerful blow

might of the false emperor…

sometimes withered , sometimes cornered

the creeper of truth can’t grasp

firmly the wall of belief,

falls it, hopelessly,

while dig I the roots

underneath the soil mature…

The world reckons ,my stature

I , covetous gambler.

 

Oh! what’s this!

why am I suffocating , what smoke is this

filling the corridor…?

Alas! Is it my own selfish endeavor

in burning the roots of verity

I char my own … fingers.

The trivial mind

Wonder I of

the shallow words and churning of thoughts

satisfied with simple pleasures

ne’er touched by façade of life’s learning

miles away from the biggest ocean…

ne’er drenched or even wet

the wisdom drops, slip over the surface

oiled with comforts and petty measures…

one dimensional image of the trivial mind

remains submerged in trifling delectations…

PURPLE

 

Isn’t the orchid pale today or

the azure lost its hues in frosty weather

the pink lilies too

seem dull

when the dusk appears little purple than

the scarlet pier…usual

forgotten in dead remains

as ashes they scatter in dust

reminiscences of the beloveds

who died one fateful night

last summer…

again prevails the same climate

transforms the camouflage of

flowers and world

Tis the sky who alone

remembers the fury

repercussions of war

in cold blooded atmosphere…

sulks the orchid tonight…

purple appears the crimson lover

stained in blood drops

dried and desiccated as humans of universe.

 

The lonely nightingale !

whence shall I be freed from the bondage of destiny
in blind clutches,
tied securely with strings
Breathlessly the body sinks,
ageing with the duties endlessly…
the cluster of orchids drooped
whilst I was busy in the chores of world
not once I got to touch the
enchanteur
failed the effort…
nothing earned…
why does the lonely nightingale then sing
song of solitude in melancholy
there’s a melody in her voice
inside the four walls
she sings and dies.

 

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“The Farmer”

Dim the hope , bleak appears the future
in every grain of the field’s harvest
rests the destiny of  poor .
while the ones who had
a silver spoon
hardly noticed the worth of a grain…
a morsel was all… for a day,
while the couple sleeps
 under the leaking roof
of the shelter 
with a noise of
roaring stomach
 in emptiness .
One who grows the crop
for millions
feeds
 whose stock
the children of everyone…
he has the glass
full of water
until the morning sun dawns
and he toils again till
his last measure.
The irony of life
 tonnes of food
 being thrown in spills  
as leftovers ,
in garbages,
while the farmer
remains famished .

“Elan”

rumblings few
cannot deter the elan
the zeal borne out of enthusiasm
and charm
betwixt the intervals by trepid  interruptions
wins the way , Thou! solitary heart…

Thou, hath seen enough storms
tornadoes
that wreck and leave torn
yet thy ship has sailed through
turbulence , with faith and courage ,
in every voyage…

when piercing words like darts
poisoned
and bled the
innocent heart
Thou! solitary heart
like a calm breeze
soothed
the bruises of thyself
with divine charm

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