A cloudless night! Into sleep, the Sun goes,  
Rousing the Moon into amorous thoughts,
Calm ‘n cool- perfect for love- an ambience
That breeds longings in leaves and grass.

Their moist desires condense into dews,
Roll with passion, hug and kiss the leaves;  
And then, go limp, and droop the grass;
Then the Sun wakes ‘n the Moon recedes.

The golden shine and the morning breeze  
Arouse all leaves to rise up  and dance;
With love lost and failed, the sorry dews,
Hug and hold on to the tips of the blades.

Cling! Strive to hold on; hang on, oh dews!
Never to go off!  To fall headlong!  Alas!...


.

The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.

On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,  
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.    
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.    

Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:  
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.

Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.

Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.

From shelves and racks, or lying in stacks, Books,
Of all ages and epochs—adolescents and youths,
Aged and venerable, and e’en those in decrepitude,
Much eloquent, but in all silence, share with us
Experiences wide ranging, emotions well pent up,
Passions, love and hate, and joys and sufferings,
Triumphs, failings, histories, biographies and maxims.

A pat or stroke, or appeal in awe, or in supplication,
They’d unleash to you, in varied moods and temper,
Their stories, in letters, words, phrases, sentences;
In prose or verse on folios, or in acts and scenes,
Of Helens, Quixotes, Falstaffs, Holmes and Othellos,
In the highs and lows of their pleasures and pathos,
Of Lears, Tristans and Isoldes, and procrastinators.

Of the plucks and spirits of Arjunas and Achilleses,
Of the failings of the ill-fated Kareninas and Bovaries,
Of the unwavering faith of Jobs, Noahs and Abrahams,
Of the lovelorn Sakunthalas, and Sitas under Simsupa,
Of God’s Garden, and of the wisdom of the Himalaya,
They speak in silence, of the real and the imagined,
As mighty godlike genies waiting for our summons!

The lovely, amorous cherry blossom trees,
Decked well in shades of pink and white,
With clouds of boughs and blossoms rich,
Clasped, rubbed, caressed and hugged
And kissed on and on   in warm embrace;
And their bosoms   heaved and breathed O2.

Lovers came under the cherry blossom trees
With hearts filled well with thoughts of love,
In the shades of the boughs of pink blossoms,
They kissed and blushed with words fervent,
Danced   in joy round the blossomed trees,
And gasped in passion, and heaved out CO2.

The gorgeous, loving trees stayed there long
In vehement love, veneration and adoration,
With the alluring charm of the passing blooms
Painting again and again   the fleeting lives.
But choppers with axes sharpened were on
To hack their pink xylems and phloems.

****-a-doodle-do! ****-a-doodle-do!
Cockcrow! Wake up, you poor humans!
The crazy, heartless sapient-irrationals!
You glug your cocktails in our names,
And slay, roast, and offer us to God,
And atone slyly your un-atonable sins.

Our lovely sickle tails, you used, once,
To concoct the cocktails you gulped;
And coveted our red comb and wattle,  
The bright yellow of our cape and hackle,
The glittering blue of our wing bows,
And the violet-red of the back and saddle.

Oh no! Don’t strip us of our fair plumage
Our sickle, main tail and the lesser sickle,
Our fluff, hock joint, shank and the spur,
To the toes and claws, for you to toil
Hard, to fry--stir-fry—us, **** in your oil,
For your vain cocktail-less cocktail summits.

Climbing—it’s a calling: everyone’s calling!
The climber climbs on, on and on, perpetually;
The ladder dictates, and the climber climbs;
Fate! No discretion! And no choice to make!

The ladder is to the climber, climber to the ladder;
Mutuality:  Each fulfilling the role of the other.
The ladder knows not why the climber climbs,
And the climber knows not why the ladder dictates.

The climber reaches the top, and then, what next?
Whether to descend, or jump down, or take wing?
Dread-apprehension- trepidation- distress!
It conquers the climber, then the fall! Defeat!

But I climb on, both in rise and in fall alike;
Path clear, vision fixed, destination well-defined;
Clouds, ether, blaze, radiance, doorway, chorus,
Throne, corona, nimbus, glory-bedazzling!
Beauty is forever Truth, and truth forever Beauty!

I’m a citizen of a great tradition,
Given wholly to its sole service,  
All worthy of it, I shall ever remain,
Forever striving for its defense.

Look into my eyes, dear brothers;
Isn’t your welfare my concern?
Aren’t I robust and lion-hearted,
To watch you against all disasters?

My info is far little, dear brothers;
Of myself know, better only others;
My ribs ‘n hollow you could measure;
In the art of living of your leisure.

Sorry! On a sort of diet I’m too;
And an average Indian, I’m too.