A sense  of humour out of everything
Is an art to create tickling out of the dead

There's nothing sweet like sorrow
That springs from the lips of a morrow
It's yours and you were a joyous jay
And you soared in your breezy way
Sadness struck you as the eve fell
But you knew it is the ring of a bell
That would pass over in no time
And you'd fly again to sing your rhyme.

It's luck or choice
to be a soldier,
For a mother,
is a difficult question.
Her piling up pain
she masticates,  
Since her son
braved at the border,
And after much toil
he couldn't survive.
It's an enterprise
for the whole family,
And for her
a great sacrifice for the nation,
Wrapped up with
selfishness and corruption.
Who knows her own desert
Where blossoms will never bloom?
Who cares of her eyes,
Catching his face in the air,
Vanishing in a blink of an eye?
Who thinks of his wife and children,
Rebuilding the broken walls
of their house?
Is being a soldier a wrong turn
At the particular intersection?
Is being a soldier honest devotion?
You could offer your two cents.
Your right.
Her right? Her happiness?
Her life?
Luck and choice
are chalk and cheese.
Life travels through
rough stones, a pause.
But living such a life is a forgotten  tragedy.

My father would say
Always pray
for a beautiful death.
He didn't know
It would sting him.
16 July 2009.
A light fall
was a great fall.
Oozing. Stitches.
Confinement.
There's a coma after mind.
Months fell into the space.
At dark dust,
A full stop
after two hiccups.
Who'd say
He would die that way?
Our choices are limited.
Only prayers could
increase some of them.