Tuesday, March 13, 2012


the prisoner of a heart,
the conqueror of a body,
sauntering in the garden of life,
how complex are your thoughts?

A languid slippery street
of useless thought.
But do your wits urge you
to frame that scene
against your acumen?
Why do you waste so much time
 in contriving ways to arrest time?
Are you a fossil of a moment lost?

Time and again you burn
in your internal flame,                                           
emerge like a wingless bird
on a windless flight.
Are you searching for clarity in those clouds?
Does your wanderlust lead you
to some kind of truth?

When you imagine beauty, is it confined to the world?
Or is it an endless stream of lucid dreams?
When you create your magnum opus,
will you be brave enough
to give it your whole heart
and yourself dissolve into its reflection?

When you see people shuffling
in their sundry dyes,
do you struggle to see things
in black and white?
Every day the twilight disperses
a virgin palette,
and you laugh at the brevity of life.
Tell me, sir, has your life been your art?
A shimmering souvenir for inspiration?

Do you see art?
Plunge your sensations in the sieved form?
Or do you marvel at the fact
that you can witness it,
and that it is you,
and you are.

Or do you paint the eyes of your mind
and walk on?

Monday, March 12, 2012

In the land of my father,

there are landscapes
sculpted with summery imagination,
there is life
stemming out of scattered shingle,
antiquity in its breath
that become textures in cities colored bright.

I count the lands that I have seen
and those from your eyes
through the tales you’ve told me,
I will only have to count the stars
festooning the sky
to count the hearts
that you have touched.

Seated under my trophies, you asked-
What use is a flute without a song?
A body out of character?
Answers without deeds,
And it is only now
that I have found
my slight life’s meaning
written almost lyrically
in them.

In the land where you parted
with your wear ,
we slipped into your attire
with straight backs
and humble heads.

We were the birds
who carried your shroud
with brave eyes
letting our hearts
cry some diamonds
as we held on to your
bare spirit.

We let it steer our stories
today, tomorrow and forever,
as we attempt to grow as tall
as the great outlines you set
and call it triumph
if we could
by our end
become a wisp of your impression.