A STREAK OF DARK
A streak of dark,
Through the lively streets, travelled,
Straight to me.
Lost in the light,
Dream of the millions,
was listening to my songs.
Went it, straight through the gates
Of the Underworld, and brought for me,
This dream, a streak of the blackeners,
And soaked the eternal, the most internal cloak,
Answered, my unasked question,
"The way was hazy, to the dark realm,
And many minions tried to stop me from snatching their heir,
'THE STREAK OF DARK'
Son of Phoebus.
Your dreams were the most powerful,
Had they the strength of a million ones,
But, dreamt they,
Your dreams, draped in white,
Coal Colored Limousines,
A Tall, Dark and Handsome Prince from Egypt,
Liquor and Ecstasy,
A Streak of Dark."
DOORNAIL DOOM DEATH
Assault, dead dull life, old modern world
Brown fog prevails.
Love, the highest faction demeans,
All represent Tereus.
Nightingale's song, a grotee meaningless sound.
Whole city suffers change
Brothels, walking and laughing.
You are a cauldron of lust,
The whole city is,
And thou shalt burn thyself
In thy own flames, and I
Shall suffer till the last day.
Die or not!
Robot like, life, can't hold more of deception,
Experiencing what doesn't comprises the share.
Leitmotif of life, to suffer,
The pans of love,
Punishment of care,
Of not serving as a street car.
Sterilize the world, O Mighty Sun!
With all your might, if you can,
Or just leave, no place for light prevails,
No order is provided, only a chaotic life.
No morning overwhelms, only the string tanning rays
Burn the skin, the heart.
Similar the night too is.
Never soothes, but freezes!
A cold life have I lead.
A cold death is not what I appreciate.
O Sun! O Mighty Old Sun!
I’M THE BUS
Started from the station of (life),
A mob gathered around.
To get on with me,
Through the entire journey.
Getting off and on, leaving me,
After certain mileage.
Coming back with more maturity,
With more luggage.
Crushing me, under their weight.
The weight which is not mine.
But, I bear, the pain and pleasure,
For whom? I run the paths.
The highways. The streets. The people
Fumbling upon me,
Always look at my ‘Driver’,
As my Guardian, changing with time.
From Morning till the Night.
DOST THOU EVER QUESTION FOLKS
Whom would they drive?
If, I’m not there?
You would consider me trash.
Abandon me on some desolate ground,
Full of Scrap.
I’m the Bus.
I accompany people, on long paths,
Sharp turns, Crude ways,
All with Erasmus’ thoughts, which,
Which actually is to be found,
I’m the Bus.
Not a Street Car.
I was a broken star,
And all termed me shooting,
I was not, Borne
Of my own existence.
I was, but a reverberated sound.
Wanted to be heard in distant lands;
Broke and fell.
With a burning gasp.
Deep into your land.
But, was shy enough to be found.
And decent enough,
To leave a scar.
Reverberantly stood She, without the attire perfect.
Innumerable viewers, captivating it as a monument.
Held by a single stone, posing thrice.
Some term it as modern and condemn
Both the sheep and the shepherd,
A few relentlessly fall,
For the transcendental Platonic Love.
A glimpse by some forged tutors,
Call it a misery.
(Are they anti-feminine or some females against their own genus?)
Is it covered or naked?
Cousin told her-
It is subjective, relatively human,
Far from the world, yet everything.
“It is bipolar existing at both vicinities;
It is true yet condemned.
It is love yet Platonic.
It is human yet Subjective.
It is all yet nothing”.
MURMURS OF BENARES
He took me to Benares.
I could see the sparks glazing from burning corpses, at the Dom King’s palace
Taking path with the Nirguna songs.
Feeling the lives of all, (from one cosmic Ghat to the next stellar)
That could breathe and not.
Savoring the flavors.
Bhajans from the temple, (at four in the morning) at the railway station
Ensorcelling the entire city in its deep slumber.
He told me, “Cleansing the city of all its scattered chaos and daily chores would snatch away ‘The Pracheenta’ out of it.
The fire we had lit on the turn, ate itself and he said, “Let’s go”.
He took me to Benares,
“Do you know what the eternal truth is?
Truth is You
And showed all the ecstasy, without him smoking;
Without me even being there.
The ghats were a joy to sit and talk,
And all the colors were visible in the dark Ganges at midnight.
He told me that there were fewer corpses
Cremated that night
and I was aware of the ‘Totka’
To not look behind.
They were less because; I had never turned my back to the ‘Shmashaan’;
It was always; in front of my eyes
And will be, until I get cremated there.
But after getting burnt,
Threaded; some part of my body,
Some left over ashes would be waiting for him to look back to me:
‘I have brought her to Benares’.