The Law! The Great linking of the Supreme!
Empathy! Keats and the sparrow connection!
The neurogenic experiences of the living rock!
From the Fount it flows across flora and fauna,
In your garden stays a while, for you to bathe!
It’s blessedness, that’s “all ye need to know.”

Sorry! Oh, little sons of the Divine,
Born into this callous land of vices
That prides on and on on a’himsa,
And a wolf-in-sheepskin democracy.

On this land of your nativity--your due,
Nurture yourselves as good humans,
Staying away from the bug of hatred,
To serve it ‘n to transform it for good.

The old peasant Lady
Of cheeks gullied deep
‘N dreams sultry-tanned
Sawn into the furrows
Of hardest times, which
The stylistic constraints
Of the post-impressionist
Van Gogh hid behind
His vibrant bush strokes,
But seeped as oil of toil
In to the lap of the Earth
And squats as the Deity
Of all our moral codes.

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!

KARMAS
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.

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!

****-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.