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.

It begins with
one's unexpected turn,
When the second wants
to move to other side;
Both keep walking,
but silence looms large,
And the words slip
and get stuck in the throat.
One face wears the wrath,
and no chance of withering soon.
It stinks to the buddy
Who's never imagined
to smell such stench
In the wonderful house
of their friendship.
A bit limping,
a bit scowl, a bit regret,
He stops after a while
and his flummoxed  mind
Sets searching the way
of getting rid of
The companionship
that is no more a bridge
Where they'd stroll smilingly
in the sunshine.

It takes off like the balloon
That desires to touch the moon.

It flies over our heads,
And to the clouds it weds.

It passes like the swan
On water and like the van

When the roads are filled
With snow and life is killed.

It comes down like the eagle
To fall on its prey, very little.

O Love, flow, not furiously,
'tween me and my father,
Our feet feel the heat of hate;
Go on, and we'd wade farther.

What he thinks is not mine,
And what I do is not his choice,
So enmity stands strong here;
I'd follow him now at his voice.

Our thread got thin and thinner,
And on separate sides we've fallen;
I'd stitch both with bows and beauty
Of my behaviour, and we'd be one.


He needs my shoulders this time,
Oh, he strolls solitarily everywhere;
O Love, come to us in a flash; I'd
Carry him till he retires to bed there.

Where're poppies?
Where're musk-roses?
Where're mangoes?
Where're songs of nightingales?

No poet has ever died
of dearth of imagination

It is on its way;
I hear it neigh, and footsteps,
Flying dust through pale leaves!