Fables of The Self

Beauty of Nature

Morning
As moonlight bade goodnight kiss
the dew alighted on tender leaves,
sun-rays played hide and seek
with the shadows of silent trees.

Afternoon was uneventful.

Evening
As I became aware of oceanic roar
a deafening thunder pierced the ear;
raging rain beat drums on the roof
nature was with me that stormy night.


Late night
Impulsive feet took to rhythmic dance
encircling the vastness of milieu interior,
the jingles from those mystic anklets
merged with the silence of parting sob.
--

The Darkness

Deep down the lane
darkness prevails
as a cover for those
thieves of emotions.

The circuit is closed here
with no escape in sight;
it's a tunnel without the
legendary ray of light.

I encountered history here
in my nightmarish dreams;
the chapter being written
with the blue of human ink.

The quest for excellence
suffocates in blind alley.
Like a trapped cocoon
mediocrity rules the roost.
--

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The Party

Crumpled napkins and empty plates,
half-eaten leftovers and entangled forks,
tin of coke waiting for its turn, and more,
the tell tale sign that the party is over.

The coat that hung in the corner-stand
shifts its locus to the drooping shoulder,
the tie is loosened as the fellow stumbles,
the tell tale sign that the party is over.


The lady is less concerned about her looks,
as weariness sets in, in her eyes and limbs,
forgetful of with whom she had partnered,
the tell tale sign that the party is over.

We are invited to this Grand Opera,
the symphony interrupted by a discordant note,
as the Last Visitor knocks at the door,
the tell tale sign that the party is over.
--

A Call of the Mountains

He has stationed himself at ten thousand feet,
high over a peak in the Himalayas, his call
echoes and reechoes deep down the valley...

I heard his call, a faint whisper,
like a mother speaking to her newborn babe,
or the morning sun nudging a sleeping bird.

It forced me to remove the boulders,
fill the potholes, straighten the pass,
and ascend towards his temple -

The serpentine path, now six feet wide
but still ten thousand feet long,
carries me over a horseback,

my ears try to listen to his voice,
his folklore,
drowned in the noise of tourists' chat.
--

all poems by c s shah