Is it the heat that is spreading
hidden among us
                            vortices
birthing in our bodies?
The climate: it never changes,
it is not man, but Sol:
the winds that power our earth;

We must deny everything we do;
The heat out there -
                              vortices in here -
Man did not cause it
Sol cannot cause it -
who never existed,
but for the true God

Not true; Not true;
But the cancers,
they grow;
But our cells, they
cannot hold a lie well;

I endure -
                this is
the way of the unblessed
                in a land of storms;
A moment expands -
        scared river on the hills
                 then back
tumbling
sandwalking
                 in a land of worms;
Holding hope
                 by the beat of heart,
closures
        ever birthing
                 in a land of proms;
And then a candle
burns through -
fragrant at night;
        The blessed
                  have their heavens;
The unblessed,
                  satori;

this surly hour
I entered a new world
where the old become strange,
the known go unknown;
Siblings and elders
relations by law, friends, teachers
who we knew so long
go acting unknown
either me, unseeing
for who they are now
or them, acting distant;
Those who we loved
feign unwant,
who we adored
flagrant;
Now here like the onion
I peel the layers
going sepia from ambient
just the highlight
of this twilit hour when
beloveds go estranged

Let there be light,
      there be    light
light,

         the flowers, snow, the colours,
fragrance,    the dawn,
moon  and the sun and stars,
            poetry, you -
                                 all light;

You are poetry: your
              dimpled smile is poetry;

But isn't poetry sound?

The sparkling of the thunder,
        crackling of fire,
              susurration of the river -

in the end, sound is light;
      the poetry of truth is light;

Birth of a star, volcanoes,
supernovae,
        all -
     sound, poetry, light:
                   you   are light;

So wake up and what do we find,
the men in black, oh, aren't they back!
Didnt they blow up them planes
or helped those who did
or those who helped those who did?
or so we heard, why the gringos went
to smoke them out of their vents?
The men in black, oh now so cool -
we share hugs and name our friends!
Women, they won't be flogged in fields,
nor will they chop off erring arms,
nor them planes land in k-har
in exchange for killers barred,
no buddhas left to smash,
or so they say, but for what their books say+:
so the women, just tented,
working from wherever caged,
men must never trim their manes
even the cricketers have turned out to play,
though be just the men eh!
Beware if you are a poet though,
or sing, or a singh - coz nobody sure
if you will be lynched yet;
Half the country is staying shut,
half a million may run (or so says the UN)
But they surely come in peace
armed as they go on our humvees;
Mothers throw their babies over,
what a liberation! perfect sense
to the kahn across the Durand fence;
And no we here across the Jhelum
so busy with the mayhem
that anderson's caused to our playmen;
Oh the reformed men in spotless black
they're back across the pens,
and we can now go back to sleep
with not a ***** in our conscience

+or as they say they say -
they all say how they say
is what the books say anyway

When the apocalypse came
it was not raining fire from the skies
no schism in the ***** of the earth,
the seas are not swirling over, nor
the rivers welling up in grief;
Quiet as tears of the early sky
we mourn - how many more
do we count lost and begone?
Shovels and pick axes say ‘no more’-
a touch and hug and a word of cheer,
who knew death comes in garbs
so dear ? there burn the pyres
endless in their dirge, painting
distant the Sun in hues of the dark
and we hope and we pray,
let this be it, Lord, if we must suffer
let this your coming be then -
for we can’t take this anymore
How many more do we lose ?
How many the logs that weary
feed the fires of the infernal?

This is the burden hammered into my palms
now hoisted dug into the heart of the vault,
stabbed, where throbs life - as the sky weeps
in pain, is this the way of the promised land?
Orgiastic masochism of the spectator-voice
that dictates to lunatics, verses we hold high.
Distant pierced by the chasm I laboured forth,
heavy on my shoulders weary, whipped on,
scorned pride crowned of thorns; Or dark
the recompense, in this world of transaction,
razor-line between heaven and mammon?
So transfigured must rise from the dead, parched
famished thirsting for redemption, firmament
carrying the cross of your love, beyond life