Youth

For years they have been there--stoically oblivious
To the world slipping out of time--caged in the dungeon of
Down-shelves in my library; perchance I met an old diary there--
Tucked into a torn coat staring deep down at my heart.
Whispered, "Remember me?"
"No" was hesitantly unstripped between my lips.
"Old you are! Ugly and broken!"
"You are old too--forsaken and deadened"
"No, look at me, I am your youth;
I am your love, inspiration, aspiration and dream"
My thought travelled through forests and meadows
Of years, months, hours and moments;
Slowly it took me inside--burrying me
Between the pages that still bears my own odour--
Kissed upon my temple and whispered again,
"Goodbye"
Through the mellowing dirge, I closed my eyes,
I felt dying, then died, then opened my eyes again,
Before closing it finally and whispered,
"Goodbye".

The journey to nativity

Darkness….lovely darkness…the smoke around..

Swirling up…sketching elf in white cloak…fading somewhere;

Alone…the silence…mind drowning thoughts endlessly…

Lay me there….sink me deep…to the native land

Where once I floated for a while…

Before laughter came out of loud cries…

Where it all started before it all about to end so soon…

Destiny has already scripted the epilogue….in absolute darkness.

Being a stranger...

Am I just a name? Or just me what they see?

Or a stranger to the way they know?

Am I just what seemingly I am—in life and beyond?

Or just a few footprints on my walk

On a path lost forever in a meadow unknown?

Am I a soul, far away from life’s roll—

Stuck onto a changeless boll—

Like an unnamed flower in an unknown knoll?

Or a path never walked before, yet awaiting,

Or a dream forsaken in dreamer’s eyes, yet shining,

Or a trampled hope in a frozen cell, yet undying?

Maybe there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

In being a stranger to the way they know

Or to me or to what seemingly I am.

Am I just a few senses that paint me as I am,

Of unchained thoughts of defeats and scars,

Of motion stalled and stymied wars,

Of glorious triumphs and crowned stars?

Or are they just what I lose, one by one,

In becoming a stranger to what they see in me—

To me or what seemingly I am.

Perhaps, there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

Of knowing the way I become a stranger to me

Of becoming a stranger to the way I know myself

Of refining an image of being a stranger within—

To myself indeed—or the way they see,

Or what seemingly I am—in life and beyond.

Mirroring life !

There is always a bend on the path where one pauses to look back and feels that much of the life has been spent up in dreaming nonsense, doing nonsense and talking nonsense. It starts the day with a frustrating tone as dampened as a lonely umbrella left outside under a raining sky and fills the heart with a sense of utter dejection. Time is ruthless, so is life until we learn to obey its rule. One is extended with choices of either loving it living through or abhorring it dying through. But, one cannot deny of having opportunity of numerous turns and twists through the walking way. And, at certain point, maybe, at certain moment, one more turn reveals a different horizon and raises altogether a different feeling. It may not be a wise piece of thought, may not even be a sense of philosophic upliftment….and it may also be so; but irrespective of what it brings along it sets a different tune to the ears so accustomed to listen to a scheduled playlist….it may be worse or better, but something significantly unlike than the experiences of the past. It widens up the thoughts that it arouses as if evaporating somewhere never known, yet there is not much of passion left to hold them back or knit them in any defined texture. It may induce with a sense of losing identity or getting closure to it; it may be a song that sounds like a hymn or may also appear like a dirge; and, it may also infuse the core inside with an utter dilemma to discern about which is what. This turning point is just an inescapable certainty of life. The life flows like a river with vigour and vibrancy of youth through its initial exposure to the company of the time, with the rebellion  in defying the obstinacy of pebbles and stones and with the laughter in meandering through vales and hills; and farther it runs, it seeks to be kissed by gentle banks,  caressed by leisurely touches of fatigued oars and obsessed by the beauty of the setting sun upon its placid face. And, flowing on it once reaches somewhere, which it has never even dreamt of….the banks fading far into vacuity, islands surfacing like upturned boats, the horizon doesn’t anymore define the margin between possession and submission. It sea-saws between a complex state of attaining revelation and sacrificing wisdom, of having pleasure in losing identity and slipping into the agony of retaining it so long for not much of purpose. There is always such a phase in life when river sees its face upon its mirror and the life finds all peace to be blessed by the wishes of river finally.