You believe in the belief of your walking

Walking is the rising sun
You are the burning sun

A poem doesn't bloom
only in the woods,
At the fire,
In her memory.

It does in meeting with a teacher too.

That blew in the garden of Bijnor.

Two shoulders, then yoke.
Two shoulders, now ropes.

Four shoulders, then yokes.
Four shoulders, now yokes.

A few moments with a teacher

Is more than a book of philosophy


They're the ladders to scale achievement

Some moments
Spent with a special teacher
In a special evening
Aren't actually spent
But transformed into emiralds
That sparkle in the sky of mind

Evening fetches gloom,
But the special evening with a special teacher
Brings the colours
That paint the amazing moments in the gallery of mind....

No alphabet

Grudges against 'I'.

No other book

Is available to change ourselves.

Marriage is the gate.

That has two doors.

Open this.
Open that.

Both open into a spacious happiness.

Death is such a delightful thing

The person who receives it
Never shares it with anyone

A butcher loses
compassion towards animals,

So as a bully towards humans

Falling things receive our likes, dislikes.
Ask the fielder his feelings
to pouch the ball.
The shattered cup tells the mood.
This morning something fell.
An wrapped present.
First snowfall for the lovers.
Everyone cheered.
This morning a different case.
No justification.

Knowledge is an Arabian horse.

Muscular, sturdy.

Once it runs, runs.

None cannot stop it.

Leave it

At the feet of the hill.

Find it on the zenith.

Knowledge is an Arabian horse.

I was a stronger.

A few yards away.

They were constructing the wall.

Oh, it collapsed like cards.

They buried, crying.

I joined the rescuers

Some still breathing, some mute.

Closer to the wall,

I was their brother.

Our dreams are always big
But the complexity of our circumstances compress them