He tempts me- Mara.
He tried and almost tempted the Enlightened one.
Mara, he calls himself, Mara that brings death.
But so sensually he does so
He tempts me

He says, almost in rhymes, rhythm that dances like death.
The wasteland around the tree of knowledge drops it fruit.
He tempts, and tempts again, in snake oil, perhaps snake skin.
He tempts me the same.

Mara the demon, he is, and he tempts me with flesh of beauty.
He tempts me with bearings of promises in bridal purse of his sisters.
He tempts out of love, he tempts me to lust.
He tempts me all the same.

Mara is he, the demon of temptation.
But temptation I've begun to love.
Tempt me more, Mara. For I've begun to lust for the World and all its giving.

The Dutch brought art, mud and dirt of the Kathmandu heartland,
With cigarette smoke clouding the air, and pizzas in the oven.
Not overcooked, no medium rare, slight rounded, man-made

The ambiance was now of Rembrandt and Van Gogh,
Yellow with the hint of light.
Perhaps coffee, perhaps tea.
And delight in a conversation of philosophy.
Maybe you'll pay, maybe me.

The open doors swallow in the air of the monsoon,
with the enigma of ever binding books who stuck to the wall
Like wall flowers, some folded papers like petals of an unbloomed bud.
They all had smells better inhaled with tobacco smoke.

The music played, and people dance within the security of their thoughts,
The shelter for their thoughts, the flaws of their speech.
Memories,pure and bright radiated from the lamps above the bar,
Lights which come to us only in fallen stars, but wishful thinking
is dangerous.
Hence forget it like Dutch forgot the wars.

Memories are made here, where the humidity is heavy from the perfume of heavy smiles, or folded chins and forheads from a chess game.
Not hidden, no worries, around the corner.
But yet again man made.

The preacher said, "Bow down before the will of Him who has made you, he knows all, he is everywhere. He is always, he is after  and before."
The prophet said, "He will redeem you."
The alchemist said "By His will all your ailments be gone."
The poet asked "Where is HE?"
The man asked "Where was he when such befallen me?"
The woman asked " Why is my virginity for the giving of men i dont know?"
The philosopher said "I'll argue."
The doctor said, "Why couldnt i save?"
The survivor asked, "Why me?"
The dead were silent.
And the air whispered in their air, "Even He doesnt know"
Reason cried "He is not!"
But faith sobbed "Dont let me go."
And life simply scoffed "Do whatever."

I live i die, im all too human
very human, so human ive lost track
of what time it is

The duration of events between my  life and death
is it time? is it life? I'm living and clock's ticking
all the same, so humanly same

time has value, like its money
time is valuable, some formulae told me
time is money, and we run according to it
so human, so humanly insane.

If we are completely limited to the
mind, the body and are questioning whether
we have a soul than we cannot quietly tell the others
how we are, by what we are

But we can commune silently,
where everything vile is out
of the darkness within, or the vacant feelings
we feel. How are we, by what we be

Some exist while some just endure
very less live in the present,
and mos people rift in waves, drown
in the past or make dams for the future
for "Me, My and Mine"

How we are by where we live in the time frame
How I am, how are you?
If i am being me than so are you.
Are you me? Or me that you are is you
Our name's declined us of our commune. Otherwise,
How we are, is by how we become

You cannot tell a word to its meaning
until it is felt in to the brain,
and turned into sound.
Only to make it more worse we
say things we should hear,
instead. Like "thank you"s
and "sorry"s

The oceans are, if not, the wails
in words of the earth alone.
Perhaps explosions of asteroids in far space
are just wails of the universe.
Wails, sobs and cries
Are words only to describe
But the question stands
and might be unanswered
are words hollow or
are they weighted?