The sound from the mustard grains
with terrible marvel crossing shores
Commands silence.
The puppet mimes their hideous noise
Ignorant, sands hide secrets
better than the home of her turquoise.
In the battle between the breath of passion
and the breath of survival
The soldier in the warrior’s land
dies in wilderness.
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A little over twelve years
day after day
a school of fish is trained to fly.
The curriculum built on an eccentric’s delusion
never addresses the rift
between the sea and the sky.
The privileged pursue the slimy illusion
the humbled native has a salty reservation.
The syllabus begins with spelling ‘fins’
W-I-N-G-S
and then the disillusion begins.
Through the blurry waters and the blazing sun
the mirage crossing the sky
is the vision of a fish flying by.
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You were conceived in me
Way before I was
My true child this is why I love you.
I have nursed you
more with vengeance and pride
My true child this is why I love you.
You wild untamed wench
Your animistic world
is built with my animosity
My true child this is why I love you.
You have played in the fields
of luscious memories and worst nightmares
of terrible thoughts and paranoia
My true child this is why I love you.
You have grown full well
You have ripened now
You have the strength to embrace
My true child this is why I love you.
You look dandy
Draped in fear and wrath
Even better in rage and lust
My true child this is why I love you.
Your tears are tarnished
with love and losses
over spilt blood and hissing fossils.
My true child this is why I love you.
You will never sleep
You are bestowed with eternal awakening
No song of mine could crumple you more
My true child this is why I love you.
If you think you suffer more than I do
You are wrong. I look into your eyes
All the time. I see what you see
You haunt me when I am wide awake
The constant longing
The constant pining
I’ve stretched my arms far too long
It hurts. If only I could reach you
Just once….
……………..
……………...
Nothing else could hurt me more.
………………
This is how much I love you.
Stay still. Wait here.
My womb cringes
My perversity swells
You are not a gift
You are my responsibility that’ll never be born
An aneurism that curbs my want
You my true child are my magic charm.
(from the red file)
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Hark! Virtues bugled and vice murmured
Thus the sermon begins with,
“Dearly beloved, we have gathered”
While all minds may not be at ease
tradition warns to hold one’s peace
lest a bad omen the tongue should release.
Doubts don’t creep if the bells toll
to mark the beginning at heaven’s door
for it sounds the same to beckon hell’s hole.
Curious rather about “who’s next?” has already started.
though tears are shed to the dearly departed.
The riddle does not lie
in choosing between the eternal and the ephemeral.
But tell me: where am I?
In a wedding or a funeral?
If heaven and hell is your cue
Think again
Does it not hold good to the newly weds too?
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