my
The vicissitudes of conscience’s journey on this planet-earth is the only true history of countries; conscience inhales the truth as oxygen- that truth which is a great ocean.
The ocean does not sit at anybody’s feet and bark, the voice of a storm does not know to say yes sir, The Mountain does not kneel down before any body.
I, maybe after all a fistful of earth, but when I lift my pen I have the arrogance of the flag of a nation. I dip my travails in tears and munch them like biscuits.
And unveil the great truth
that a man, who is stronger than life, alone,
can sculpture from word to century.
Cut off my hands, still they will return and join me. In my storms the entire sky is blown away like a scrap of paper. So, now, of what value are those crowds of stars on my path? I only know this much, that human life is an exhibition of beastly forces.
Today my memories are visiting me, filling my journey with breathless winds. I am one who runs in search of storms, wounds and drunkards.
But at the sight of the peaks of people, I melt into a poem and flow onto the paper. An earthquake is born in my language. In the fiery blood flowing in floods from broken hearts of words, human tongues are floating. Sweep off all this rubbish of verbiage of words. Then will appear on the page clearly, my pearl white voice.
the screaming storms
 |
You living corpses! Look! Falcons are hovering over your cities That silent trees do not speak is an idea of your ignorance but they are monks living on their inner energy. in the civilisation of mix of huts and mansions you commit suicides and flatter them as self-realisation. your speeches are charred chastity of languages Trees rising out of the burning bosom of earth give soulful cool shade. In woods ruled by winds man can penance without out lose of revere. On the highway of your cities we find bullock carts dragging like unbearable ancient burden. Motorcars flash by like vanity on wheels, do not even glance at the rows of trees on the roadside. Old and new slight one another in your path. Values of nature have been cast away by your view That eagle flying wing to wing with the plane in the high skies is not a mere bird It is an ancient bird gazing from the ramparts of the azure at the rise and fall of civilisations. Those civilisations Which Man unfurls as symbols and flags of his victory in pages of his history. Looking at man’s trumpeting vainglory mountains are in snide splits Oceans are smiling in doubt; sky is roaring in laughter, ancient forests, wombs of wisdom are in pain making inaudible commentaries Oh Man! Where are your feet taking you? Those feet bending under the burden of your shallow civilisations. Listen! Sitting on the boundaries of centuries storms are screaming |
 |
----->From word to century----> |
 |
Sitting on the banks of an afternoon a butterfly and myself were sipping the perfume of a flower. Sun had spread up to the heights of Oak trees. This is an ideal niche for a soul yearning for a place not trampled by human path. On the spur of that very movement
I rushed into myself.
How few of us are left behind like the last rays of this setting century how much we have achieved, how lonely we are , If we were to write only our sorrows and sufferings how much ink would go waste The new century would not forgive us it would make us stand before the jury of history and enforce its sentence
Oh! When Life is being dragged, tied to this gigantic wheel we realise how helpless creatures we are
Waves of life ebb and flow deepening my loneliness, seasons of spring come, cuckoos sing times of years and silver my hair, take me back to the universe of formlessness.
The sun sliding in to river is an orb. shadow of sun breaks into pieces and washed away in the river waters. Shadows of even mountains and trees tremble in waters. Creation may feel that it is a stoic greatness but to the stream of river creation is disconcerted pieces
But every day sky lays a red egg called sun and rooster announces sun’s daily engagements.
