~Especially For our own poet, Immortality~

we all dream for a few seconds,
mostly when we are younger,
like, say, s e v e n t e e n, that
something, we might be~come,
known for, perhaps even believing
our names|our poems might be read,
a hundred and one years on…

periodic, episodic,doesn’t last long,
though it
does get repeated every
now and then, and  then again,
each time, the notion disappears
faster, sure, better things to dream
about, better hopes more closely
held, tangible tasting, envisioning,
deserving for intensely scheming,
using that double edged
s~word,
realistic,
and even, in the
planning, schemin’ dreamin’
always a nagging fearin’
can
they really
could come true

others fantasize,
, that class of crazy dreamers,
standing at an airport gate,
hear a call out your name,
and someone will,
from behind, tap you on the
shoulder and asks, shyly

hey, you wouldn’t be that person
who writes
poetry on HP?

unlikely of course, odds against,
whoa,
even worse
than winning a lottery jackpot prize

but then again, surprise always
favors biting you on,
well, them tender places,
and a day comes,
when  a younger poet, amazes, takes the time,
makes the effort to look up your older
writs, languishing in bits of bytes on an
unknown server, aged  graying from
relentless time,
and the absence of eyes,
being read, thereby re~realized,
revitalized,
visualized, inhaling light+ air,
away wiping
the dust and webs of  suffered mortality
and, that silly notion escapes it grave,
and you writer, run into an encounter
with an old fantasy, resurrected and
you too reread that old poem, issuing s
voluble ****!, not half bad, and restoring
that momentary potent potentiality of
it
surviving past the beyond date of expiry,
and then, another is read, & another,
swallowing a pill stronger
than a a Doctors’s best gurss forecast
of 20 more years you’ll live,
for an actualized prophecy now
is tangent tangible,
like mouth to mouth-resuscitation
and you, unusually,
think once more about tomorrow,
exhaling the headyatmosphere
of a rainy forest,
well appreciating, laughing at the future,
for here, she has shared but penned
but twenty four original poems,

me,
thousands open and disguised, and my newly formed grin is now for her,
for now my breath and its baggage of a fantasy, may
be coming her
reality realized?

and I will surely still be an
avid cheerleader
for her, for you, a
devoted
follower-in-absentia

What did your parents tell each other,
Why did they say that to one another,
When you were born to them in that weather?

Aapse mil kar Khushi hui!

Your name is Khushi,
And Khushi means happiness,
Your parents felt glad on meeting each other.

And I bet that they were happy when you were born.

Hindi Original:

Ab Aankhon Mein Neend Kahaan?

Wo to bachpan tha jab so jaate the,
Ab to jaane kaisi fikr sataati hai.
Wo to bachpan tha jab kha paate the,
Ab to motaape ki fikr sataati hai.

Wo to bachpan tha jab khwaab sajaate the,
Ab to saari duniya berang lagti hai.
Wo to bachpan tha jab sab apne the,
Ab to duniya dushman nazar aati hai.

Wo to bachpan tha jab khush raha karte the,
Ab to barson puraana duhkh sataata hai...
Wo to bachpan tha jab bhavishya ki chinta na thi,
Ab to beete ateet ka kabhi na khatm hone waala khed hai...


Here's the translation:

Where Has The Sleep Gone From My Eyes?

That was childhood, when I could sleep,
Now, worries keep me awake.
That was childhood, when I could eat,
Now, fears of weight gain haunt me.

That was childhood, when I'd weave dreams,
Now, the whole world seems colorless.
That was childhood, when everyone was my own,
Now, the world seems like an enemy.

That was childhood, when I was always happy,
Now, decades of sorrow haunt me...
That was childhood, when I didn't worry about the future,
Now, the unending sorrow of the past haunts me...