I have been waking up each midnight,
each dawn, at the end of each passing hour
to see the squabble between darkness and light
resulting in red rays as blood of a celestial war at twilight.
The morning with its cool breathe makes us
oblivious to sounds that clatter like evocative dreams
and then sweeps us to silkiness in a land and sky
where multicoloured shrouds betray our keen vision.
“Where from you come and whither you hide?
Why don’t you keep us away from divinity?”
My questions seem to scatter with sunrays
or get lost in profound darkness;
barking war dogs misguide us,
chase us towards sleep and then comes
another night, when fright too has been dictated
not to disturb us, while the evil and Gods fight
to show us another peaceable day.
My mysticism must be of the lowest order;
the perpetuity of heavens extends far beyond
the darkness when I howl like a werewolf in pain.
Brooding Of A Bird
The brooding of birds posses
N number of locked doors
where, even supreme philosophy
can find fodder for its growth.
We have time for books and
these scenes are beyond the white pages
with ever accumulating concentration
smearing red with thoughts of continued existence.
Exhibitions can be a way to find them
if we are too busy to find the best
that nature can give us with
its flying creatures.
A blue lake captures my soul in its
unmeasured, unimaginable depths
where a new world better than lands
survive drinking immortality.
Howling wolves pierce melancholy
and the dropping leaves stuck with
fever of spring bows down
before the majestic stance
of endless sky and waters.
Echo of unknown sounds emerging
from the interstices of the woods
run wildly, circle around ears
like unquenched souls.
Striking against trunks topless trees
they become one with lingering serenity.
The bridge connecting them to my land
is left broken for years,
perhaps broken by the Gods
and none has dared to swim across
for both worlds gets bewildered
with the laws in either side of the bridge.
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