silence

A glimpse of a word

Moving slowly toward

An empty space

Between two meaningless sentences

Lying down it

fell,

Punched by an onomatopoeia

The word could have been moulded

If not for a wresting instant

Time is of the essence

For a truthful word

To born again

To thrive away

harmony

Flawless words do not exist

For those innocent to magic

As soon as they appear

On a broken branch of a nascent tree

Pure like shiuli flower

They descend, gracefully,

Through the atmosphere, soaring,

Flying and soon, disappearing,

Towards the endlessness of winds

craving

A writer

Is whom I crave to be

In a glowing world

Where words as beams

Would lead me

To the divine path of

The greatest light

The lightest truth

The truthful sense

Meaning of all,

That being a writer

Has no sense at all.

smogged

In an alcove covered by dust 

The way I stare at the sky 

Not distinguishing a blue line 

A shivering light 

A respite 

A square of hope where to breathe

At the cream-white chamber 

Mocking the cosy purple blanket 

Stuffed with unachieved dreams 

Muffled under the weight of 

cotton expectations 

steeled reality 

Trapped in four walls of mud 

in four men's crooked ideas 

It's midnight while the klaxons cough

Regurgitating their disgusting day 

On the ground 

On the road 

On the three beggars sitting by the junction.

invisible

On the sidewalks, the dust heavily fell,

The traffic has disappeared,

Haze only remains;

Giants in the sky,

The street-lamps flicker

In the shadow of the creaking doors.

In the distance - rumbles a storm

The black rain shatters the fluttering fabric;

While wandering silhouettes observe your steps,

And loitering shades are seeking rest.

Hidden by a foggy twilight

To furtive passers-by, they reveal a face

Tanned by the labour, hollowed by the absence

Toward the street, they unfold a hand,

With a fleeting glance, they implore a mirage

For a penny, a smile, a piece of bread.

Indifferent Delhi falls asleep in a false silence

While hopelessness regains the bleak vagrants

Cardboards are used as mattresses

Collecting the sighs, the words,

And the shivering limbs of the invisible. 

abyss

Transcending, it goes beyond.

Deeper. Further.

Surpassing all bounds

In the roots of ourselves,

In the creases of our flesh,

In the strands of our hair.

It comes interrogating the filth dwelling within our hearts

The impurity we all have

We have allowed seeping inside us ;

Insidiously, in the interstices of

Our minds, thoughts and values.

Slowly, it has infiltrated,

While too busy to be aware,

Too lethargic to be conscious,

The very core of our humanity.

Engrossed in our pursuits,

Running,

High of ourselves,

Intoxicated by ourselves,

We failed to perceive

That the pain we inflicted upon others,

Had wounded our own souls

Had bruised our own minds.

Despair! We are the ones,

Accountable yet not culpable, 

Who remained silent

when we should have roared;

Sited we stayed,

when we needed to try,

At least try,

To rise up.

neverland

Who are they,

monochromous shapes,

in constant motion,

moving and coming

relentlessly,

like spectres they swing,

from here, to there,

without descending

Remarkably they,

remain aloft,

while our own shadows

must faithfully accompany us ;

burdened by the weights trailing our steps

stuck at each of our steps,

chasing us upon the walls.

Helpless we,

left with no option

but to remain below,

when they,

capable of soaring away

as if they were departing

for Neverland.