Bells in fires higher the realms -
rise winged from cocoon sleep!
Hymns:
aoens that endure,
rise friend of all life,
benedictions
in all the heavens and hells;
Of flame the garment
dyed of the earth
birth, loss, decay and age,
suffering of even the Gods;
Find means of peace that lasts
find and broadcast across
the worlds seven;
Rise winged from cocoon sleep
that it may rain grace
on the wonderlands.

It's in the air, that kind of art
the rant hour -
khaki shorts come to roost,
sour dips for jibes,
venerable turns up the Oak:
and lo, from Mecca to Dacca,
it's raining theories
conspiracies, of how
in the days of yore
even the golden birds's
poo smelt pure;
It's all our deed
from the Saucer to the Sky;
Heil Leader! Now
lathis to the rescue
then long speeches and
many grins - (x)ollywood
the much hated,
whose songs cannibalized;
It's chai samosa time,
it's pakora time,
Bermuda triangle time.

When the mist rose,
fragrant painting the horizon red,
radiant in the evening sun,
emerged of roses a bed;
And we walk on
        hand in hand
                   by a lotus pond
                           in some sapient
                                 distant land.
The chorus of the stars,
hymn
to a limitless vast,
the vistas
that we held in those palms;
Little taps nimble on the roof tiles
the noon-song of the after-rain
drip-dripping sky.
It   was   I    then, and -
you,        as         you       are        now.
Tither have        you       gone hiding?
Waiting at the edge of the platform,
last siren of the day,
dying into the night
rattling in the rails,
echoing in my soul;
Trudge
            now    long
to the aboveground
late bus, hedgewalking
past the cacti
in the garden next door;
flowered, thorn-bushes then
smirks
now the desert rose
crowned King
dew-frozen    of the hour dim

Power the dark twinkle stars
barking corners suspending time
twice kinks come harking cutting
the fabric weaving wearing magic
bending the burning distance
past echoes from the future wand
collecting in the pestles wrung
shrunk reeded in the rock crests
green, the glory that flowers thorns
crucified to the firmament after
the rains departed never to return
in the heart what flames red above
in the depths what fills the sky
pressed to the earth in the desert
song of rivers coursing among stars

Four of them thirteen times lashed this land
and three; As the skies wept over
our sullied homes, heart rending in Indra's roar,
teary eyed, wearily waited these desolate gates:
Where the cove that shelters you in rain?
Whiplash on our backs, the mid-season
Mantharas, we who sent jasmine Janaki's feet
to the thorn-laden paths of the jungles deep,
where dwell the soul-snatchers vile;
By the fires of the winter, storms raged,
when word came of her loss;
As the quarters wailed thumping their chests;
Was this why we brought forth the Sesha down,
to keep vigils under the wind's unending flutter?
Folorn with every leaf falling into the Sarayu,
shrunk now to a stream in the burning pangs
of this earth for the touch of your feet,
this holy night, when we await you
with rows of lamps, that now swells in spate:
prince of our hearts, woe begot for all times,
that we sent you to the bush on the night
of your ascension. Now the heavens hymn
bursting forth in joy, that you are with us,
withered, fatherless this Raghu realm!

Girl with the tribal tattoo,
tell me, what that on your arm left?
Lone, the wolf on the farm
totem ranging the dark,
we are of one kind;
Digging for them old spades
there at the Embankment,
we went wrong at the right turn
and still reached the end:
there was a bus for every misstep;
Posting you cards from abroad,
a mystery penny of a call;
Lost in a circle of smoke
not the signpost blame.
Late at night when the winds tiptoe
on roof tiles and you duck
into my arms unafraid;
Here we walk, hand in hand,
in the rain, now in the park
past the winter eve.
Girl with the tribal tattoo,
we are of one kind.
Old, the totem call of the night.
And the dragon writhes when
among them gongs amok
red the colour of the season new.

Some say the Singularity comes in '45
some, not the name of a movie made;
Einsteins can sing till kingdom come, but
why there should be one, some can't fathom!
But for me, this is real,
every when you walk past then,
my heart rate's on Richter scale,
Singular girl, on orthogonal lane!
There must be those spaces
called Calibi-Yau, or I get and gone how?
Hidden dimensions that don't exist
except in those, your dimpled frowns?
I know now, our branes don't meet,
but while you want to differentiate
and love that done partially more,
at the horizon, calculus is mess!
Gravity girl, don't make me loop
this quantum dude, let it emerge,
the whole thing, all am asking
is for a meeting!