The prime seat in its own colour decked with gems,
The scepter at the right and the scroll at the left,
The carpet in the front and the beauties at the back,
The whole of the seat, surrounded by minions,
Under the roof of luxury and manipulation:
Airplanes across nations; military fascination;
Self-styled profile; Cakewalk attires;
No cost hospitals; sheathed in ‘Black Cats’;
Floating in dream cars; pocketful currency;
Illegality against law; Cosmetic actors;
Pen in the right hand, eraser in the left hand;
Lying against truth; falsifying reality;
Kicking the ignorant citizens with empty schemes;
Fanaticism against patriotism;
Skilled in Disguise Show; Crafty-minded in bargaining;
Sellers and vendors of nations’ legitimacy;
Eating the simple pie of the poor, hugging the corporates;
Terrorizing the supporters of nations;
Dwindling the economy of nations;
Building weapons and Bio tools;
Tarnishing the reality with paradoxical episodes;
Bullet trains through the veins of the ignorant citizens;
Building aristocratic bonds among infamous showcases;
Sidelining the needs of the needy; amassing wealth for families;
Of all deeds of negativity, there is one left,
And that is self-justification of all deeds,
For the seat of Power in its own colour decked with gems,
The scepter at the right and the scroll at the left,
The carpet in the front and the beauties at the back,
The whole of the seat, surrounded by minions,
Under the roof of luxury and manipulation.
So I sought and seek Power.

There are six coffin bearers carrying a box,
It was a solemn procession with priests and pastors,
Rituals performed; requiems sung; lamentations heard,
Who is in the coffin? Who are the coffin bearers?
A flash of interrogations hit my heart and mind:
Where do they carry the body in the coffin?
Who are the priests and pastors to the one who is breathless?
Why are lamentations ‘sung’? Why are rituals?
Are they to please the breathless corpse?
Where is the breathless corpse taken to?
Beyond doubt, the destination of the corpse is the cemetery.

Mourners and pallbearers are hired not by the corpse,
Dance performed; refrains gusted out;
Garlands of melancholic florets thrashed out;
Beats of unpleasantness resounded.

A silent spell practiced on the last journey of the corpse;
Neither a pallbearer nor the folks raised any slogan;
But everyone’s prayer in silence realized.

I am a passerby walking with a lot of reflections,
The coffin bearers shall be carried too one day,
The priests and the pastors will be taken in processions,
Rituals, requiems and lamentations will be enacted.
Coffins are ready for all with mourners and pallbearers,
Dance, refrains, garlands and beats shall be added to glooms.

I ask myself: when is my day?
Who shall make my coffin?
I cannot hear requiems in my long sleep,
I am far from rituals; dumb to lamentations,
I must reach my destination, whether l like or not,
Folks will never come with me,
For I came with nothing and leave with nothing.
Where do I go? Where does everyone go?
I cannot be a passerby to my own last journey.

I long for my day; it may not be my will;
But the day to all is predestined,
And we are to leave this shadow of life.

So, when is my day?

Elsewhere thou wert born with thy dispositions born of HIM,
Might be with the galaxy of blossoms flocked with song birds,
Might be among chiming streams brimmed with fishes.
Might be drenched in tuneful showers of grace.
My heart hath perceived thy childhood painted in thoughts
Right now painted in my words of magic incredibly.

Butterflies hover above thee sprinkling colours upon thee,
I hear gallops in thy quick steps as stallions trot,
So sweet as of the Nightingales with their melodies,
Serene, I believe, are thy words adorned with innocence,
Young as the tender shoot looking ahead of blossoming,
Thy words, I believe, knit with philosophy still to gain,
Amiably caressed thou art with the West Wind,
And I read Shelly’s mind in his ‘Ode to the West Wind’
So swift and amicable traversing ‘cross the horizons,
Child-like etiquettes, I believe, crown thee to stride ahead.

Thou art a star seen in the expanse of my inward eye,
May be a way of life to perceive thee ‘cross the sky,
Thou art a child still unto me and I am thy friend.

We’re all awake of HIS Way of Creation, a mystery to say,
Everyone learns the truth that the world is round,
And we all meet where we begin our journey.
And let our journey shall be led by the ONE WHO created us.

Haiku
truthfully logic
streamlined in everyone's soul
on earth for Great Life.

Haiku

thoughtless agony
drained in the soul of loss
all earthly sorrow.

TO THE ONE WHO INSPIRES MY HEART !
                                                                                                      

Thou art the rainbow decked with colours of dreams,
Reigning the sky with moisture wedded with haze.
Thy beauty embedded in the rainbow - the crown of the sky.
When you smile unto me with thy fragrant love,
My heart grows blossoms of rainbow beauty,
I know not why thy heart inspires mine;
Yet I know it’s the magic of muse on its pinions
Speaking unto my silent heart and wakes my poetry.
Thy smile unto me adds wings to my poetry,
And my way of life is all of poetry.
Thy eyes sing lullaby unto my heart,
And my heart is drenched in the rain of thy love.
I adorn thee with my magic odes
When I address thee as a muse unto me,
Thou art a song bird chanting in silence into my heart,
I deck thee with my sonnets clothed with metaphors
For thou hast changed me Spenser with his sonnets,
I epitomize thee with my epic of anecdote
As the muse of Homer reigns my poetic child.
When I beautify thee with my blossom-like verses,
I’ve been Keats whose truth is:
‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever’
And I believe my verse for thee bears a lasting touch.