Not because
anxiety had iced up in my mind
Not because
I couldn't read it,  like a Chinese child to urdu
Not because
It was pinned, like pinions of peacock
In a diary, in my mouth
Not because
Its edged hands trimmed my fingers
Not because
Its lion-eyes had made me feeble and fawn
Not because its colossal physique had mowed me down
Not because
Its wide jaw had masticated my hands
But because it had **** my hope
Even of a beautiful moment
And had turned my only bowl of comfort turtle
And had snatched my last spoon of happiness

Salt is water in the container.
No rope to tie it,  and put aside.
Clock invites you to the dinning table.
Guests'r fanning with their portables.

He is there to incite you
To hit your head against the wall.
Would you?  Imagine. It is done.

He is the ghost.
You will cower.
Care to be taken of.

Little hospitality keeps
A mischievous cat away from the kitchen.

Don't let him to follow you.
Take out your sharp temper.
Stab him. Finish him off
At the click of a mouse.

Prepare the dishes.
Feast is an unstitched relation.
Hold on to it tightly.

Salt is chilies in eyes under his nose.
Salt is deliciousness at his death.

Dare to be a killer
To avoid the brutal killer.

As if in mild amusement at the way
I undermine myself and let my flaws
Cast shadows over my worth,
My neurons light up and give birth
To electricity that sprints through,
Weaving ideas, creating magic,
Shaking me up and lifting me high,
Bringing me face to face, eye to eye,
With the beautiful truth which sets me apart-
That my body is the house of art.

****** is water
Gushing on the road
People come and wade
And feel a sense of satisfaction
After reaching their marked point

It is *******
Piled up in a corner
Or in between the sides
Gentry put hanky on their noses
And grimace to find it scattered around

Whenever
Prose is on the verge of fall to the ground
Poetry does the work of a family member

All days' ve flown down the wall
Where we would fly the kite
Under the boiling sunshine
And clouds, dancing in joys.

Only stains breathe now
Like spatches painted
On the road after rain.

Even today that squirrel
Comes and try to find out
Our legs just like a boy
Who searches his lost
Coin in the sand.

The gardener still approaches
And sleep soundly .
None disturbs him.

Daily I visit this place
I couldn't resist myself

Again the heart wishes
To stand in the same water
But legs stumble
Like those of a pigeon
On the window..

War
Is not for peace

It is to disturb common life