My mind is a battlefield where struggle takes place,
forces of good and evil clash.
For their cause may be justified,
but me is the victim,
who is trashed from side to side

I am tried and tortured for the sake of truth,
dragged down unknown paths,
drowned to hostile seabed.
I am a useless puppet, an amusing pet.

For the escape is unthinkable,
no way to unshackle sagging chains.
The earth is the limit,
where i wither till the end of days.
And the greedy clouds wont let the light out, looming over queer scene.
I try to read the faces, but the shadows take them away to decease.
The battle goes on.
The fight picks up steam.

I plea the master who set up this play.
I need a break.
I need delay.
The world is no longer my dwelling.
This life is no longer my claim.
I only want a little silence,
a time to think it away,
the freedom to shake my visions,
now no more than hazy shapes,
to fall asleep in wilderness,
where ground will soak me in green embrace.

Oh, i hate so much the noise,
the slamming of doors and
the cracking of bones.
The disturbance of air
caused by inessential cries,
disdainful sighs,
treachereous lies.
The purpose of many
are useless talks,
which poison thoughtful minds.
Only scratches of scribbles,
forging silence of words,
which sound so much tenderly clear,
than insipid shouts
are dear to my ears
    and eyes.
Couplets and couplets -
    my lifesaving droplets,
      that heal me of noisy venom.

Its sad, that death is the only tangible truth.
I'd like to wish for something else, but everything is a hoax.
Our love is a figment, that reason will dissolve,
a queer thought, passing through my mind to a place of no return.

Am i old?
No, i am ancient,
like granite rubbles of abandoned city,
where silence is profound,
where spirit of bygone days
floats around,
between the time-worn pillars, embraced in moss,
you can feel the touches,
can sense the warmth,
that still so cozy and real,
where life was abundant,
filled with memories to the brim,
but now so still.
It has lost the vibrancy and allure,
the jubilance of spontaneous thoughts.
but found the wisdom of sadness,
the peculiar meaning of God.

for a dawn is an instance of creation,  
man awakened to world in awe and fear, with a glimpse of hope
on his obscure journey ahead,
overflowed with aspirations and uncertainties, the vigour and despair.
Its a message of change, reminiscence of promise,
a lonely moment of being confronted with dread and craving for life.

as we trod along the path to salvation,
faking compassion
and synthesizing joy,
masking foul meaning with perfection,
sipping tasteless wine for mere ploy.
we've to come to a place and not the promised land
but desolation with no seeming end ...

Is it possible to have a real empathy,
so deep and intimate, that you may talk
without uttering a word?
Is there a way to emulate mindset,
to accommodate a foreign feeling,
to live through strange emotions?
Is one right to write about stranger's experiences
or one has to undergo the same spectrum of joy and sorrow
to compose their true and vivid story?
Is a writer eligible to speak for others?
Who endowed him with urgency to draw conclusions
on life and death?
Why does he reside in his own world, enclosed in mystery,
oblivious of daily struggle
and decides on matters unknown to him?
Can such a complexity of life be inferred
by his mercurial mind?