Is there a thing-
to which The God-
may thankful be?

In a million prayers,
would The God,
my silence see?

To the God who-
rarely answers thee,
What odds offer-
a better chance to me?

So, in a million prayers-
For my solemn silence,
The God is thankful to me.

-Ajey Pai K

'Tis like this-

The pride of men is locked in mirrors.
Laying dormant, bound in fetters.
This prisoner is presented to a fool-
Ever at the end of a fruitful groom.

Ajey Pai K

Of the best memories we oft overlook
Are the depth of the experiences felt.
For what the surface offers in a day,
Are rippled by the torments within.
Like the beady eyes of an upset lover,
Or the stoic silence of seers in seclusion.
Whence do thoughts get expression?
And where do rivers find solace?
Whence does light of cognition germinate?
And where do unspoken desires die?
Whence do the notes of music resound?
And how do two lovers find their paradise?
These are but words as bubbles on water,
And these are humble attempts at answers.
As thoughts are expressed from depths of truth,
The rivers find solace in the depths of oceans.
As Light germinates from the depths of darkness,
The darkest desires die in the depth of commitments.
As the notes of music resound from the depths of passion,
Lovers find paradise in the ties of trust.

With bodies made of stardust
And minds driven by dreams,
Mortals write on papers of time.
Like scrawling words at the seashore.
At the behest of purpose,
And a night's deafening screams,
Art is made in the image of man.
As he is made in the image of God.
And as waves of years hit,
Glories fade and wash away
Like the words in wet sands,

Then a symphony of souls comes to a halt,
To be sung by faceless people in the future.

The gentle high of the ****** Mary,
Makes midnight's breeze seem like Jazz.
A mere glimpse of your opulent eyes,
Hammers me like tequila on ice.

For the mendicant of thoughts,
Sleep is a virtuous incentive.
For the explorers of thoughts,
It is simply a cursed routine.
It is not a surprise why the hungry,
Seldom bother how the food is cooked-
Or why the chef's palate is insatiable.

Trudged by the demons of old,
Seared by the lashings of time,
Yes, I am crying out of pain-
And these tears are mine.
Diamonds mined in the tunnels of thought-
Of those memories that ought not be talked about,
A burdened mind is soul-steered
As I cry an ocean of tears.

And my eyes run dry before my memories of you fade away.

We covet the nature of things,
Like dreams knocking at reality.
As adults in some offices pause-
To mourn over their own death.
An equanimous person squats,
At the shores of flowing thought-
Seemingly free and perennial,
And asks,
What if rivers are forced to flow-
And the drops that don't comply,
Are imprisoned in ponds by rain?

-Ajey.

I see the moon in a balmy blue ocean,
Undulating in its restless waves.

Oh these foolish waters!
Find love like a little girl,
With waves hitting the shore.
The sea goes to war with itself,
As the rising tide falls in love
With the image of the moon-
That the falling tide tries to erase.

Irony sleeps in a coffin every night
For when something so deep,
All consuming and powerful-
Be so fickle as to fall in love,
With a mere image that projects,
But only on the surface,
There's nothing one can do.

Out of the many colours of the world, my favourite are the ones in the night sky.
Dark and solemn, they seldom have anything to hide.
In the death of the sun, lies the creation of a masterpiece.
In the canvas of the clouds, the moon becomes the centerpiece.
While the shimmering stars sing a symphony of sparkles,
The stern planets groove to the hush of their splendour.

When the night of the mind brings night to the world,
New colours are brewed while dreams are dreamt.

Your genteel keenness to deny me my identity,
Has impelled a lenient amnesia in me.
Pray, allow me to be rediscovered-
In the dark luster of your eyes,
And in the plush depths of your thoughts.

The only companion of loneliness is silence.
Theirs is an unceremonious marriage like -
Couples in the middle of their middle age,
That mutually run out of things to explore.

One tries to find meaning in keeping a book,
That tells the same story a million times over-
Hoping to find white pages in the yellowed mess.
But that hope too, soon becomes a relic.

But lately I've come to love a poem,
That unites loneliness with silence-
It's the twisted compromise made-
By water when it settles in a container.
It is written on the faces of mothers-
Whose husbands are away at work.

A verse in the wind that all men hear,
To an effect that it stitches broken hearts.
It is a call for worship in an unbuilt temple
And the belief that enshrines love in trust.

For 18 years, I poured my efforts,
Into little shot glasses of failures.
Today, I am a successful alcoholic.

There is no glory to light
When the oceans gleam,
Yet the waters beguile
Sun-lances by the clouds.

A slave isn't the criminal-
In his master's bidding.

So sunlight is forgiven
When drops are stolen
From veneers of oceans
To mend those clouds!