It is Ponnaiyar
Flowing to the Bay Bengal
and carries all dire rumour
Make everything fine and fertile!

This is our sprawling land
Our father painted on it with their soul and blood,

There was a time,
When their crop field remain pour.....  
without our slog.....

Over the years .......
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar......

Now they don’t called us
to transplant their paddy ..

Now they don’t called us
to harvest their paddy....

Now they don’t called us
to harvest their Sugarcane......

Now they love their machine,

Over the years ....
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar.......

My mother once asked ‘who develop machine?’
I replied, ‘Scientist ‘..........
She said ‘they are selfish’.............

Over the years
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar..........

Now we travel around,
and hunt for  living..............

Ponnaiyar still flowing to the Bay of Bengal
and caries the memo of our grief and struggle.....

I cast my eyes on to the shoreline
Allowing waves rolling in to wet
White sand stretching out almost infinitely.
Gulls flying off into the horizon
In a quest, mother nature set.

Dressed in white, sitting by the fire
The sparks fly out and meet the air.
Lost in the silence,  
Listening to the waves
Of the blue seas,
As blue as your eyes.
As the moon takes its place
On the night throne
And the stars align
As an ancient ritual,
The air gets colder
But warmed by the fire,
My eyes heavy,
To sleep I surrender.

I lay my head back on earth
And lose myself in a dreamscape
Where you fill a certain absence.
And into the depths of your eyes, I fall,
Spiraling,
Tumbling.
As I pick myself up
I emerge out of waters.
And like a powerful force
You, drawing me closer.

Waking up to a distant rumble of thunders
I look at the dying fire become embers.
Smiling to myself knowing
Today I'll come home
To see a blue sea
In your eyes.

Patronizing our morality
We live out lives in pretence and lies.
Our judgment shallow
And receding in wisdom.
Slaves to a system ruled by our fears
Blind to affliction and silent to tears.
Severe addiction to false promises
Prey to a bureaucracy feeding off our dreams.
Divide, rule, **** and procure
Reveling in madness our minds create.

Hard to dream of flush green meadows
Blue skies and quiet days,
Where the songbirds can sing their ode
And daisies are but plastic
That bow to the sun in awe and wonder.
I dream of a day when you and I
Can hold hands rather than rage wars,
Where money is not out ruler
And our morality outweighs the vice,
Where humanity is raised by selfless deeds
And peace is a language of our hearts.