It is a day without sky
Lying under thousand planets;
Remembering about the so-called fulfilled life.

Awaited rain will come at its favourite hour.
Stars will bloom, lust like fire ball.
Will I ever get my sky repaired?

A heavy emptiness inside the lungs.
questions about vagueness.
Finding the contentment
When there's no unpaid rent.

A perfect God near to my heart.
I used to draw His goodness to my will.
Forgot about His own distinct vastness.
Searching for happiness.
Very subtly I missed the calmness!


Seeking for a face that cool the dreary eyes.
Yet discovering the disparity among colors,
When sameness at the divine canvas!

Today, the only time to follow the still wind.
Inhaling the mid-night essence.
Sudden arrival of train breaks the silence.

Thinking about indulged moments I lived with.
Still I am in void though truly  fulfilled.
OH! God! I have found you just the way you are!

Throbbing hands
Rusty pens,
Sleepy eyes
Lashes die!

The beginning, the end,
Wearing the same.
Divine nature, how obedient,
So tame!

Bare room
Counting claps,
Measuring inner howl.
Taking thousand naps.

Open sky
Full of stars,
Hues among the clouds
Remind of scars!

Stubborn winter
Gives birth cotton snow,
Long verses;
Lost and aimless.
Seeking for a master to vow.

I know a boat called ‘life’
Where people come and go.
Few are genuine,
Later you will know.

My poems are aging
Like my shrinking skin
So feeble, so naïve
Tell me-
Will they be pardoned for an innocent sin?

I used to drench with colors like the joyful spring.
As if it lent the essence of most awaited love from two vague souls.
They don't believe in true love at the end;
Though the innocent part of nature endues those colors forever.
I opened my burning eyes,
balmy smell of mango burgeons touched my soul.
I can remember how I met summer.
When tepid aroma wafted in my lungs.
And greeted my rusty pen.
Then I met autumn.
I learned to forget.
I often heared the rustling of my reminiscences.
I became a deciduous tree, shed those memories like dry leaves.
One day whiteness spread across my rainbow surface.
I got stagnant and rigid.
I grew frosty inside,
enslaved by the heaviness like the clever fog condenses the earth.
And I acquainted with winter.
I wonder was it a secluded heart, that possessed these divine four layers?
Or, a decieved one, where deep anguish made a void once?

We checked the forecast
and readied ourselves,
Battened down the hatches
and stoked the fire,
Begged the foundations
to hold these walls.

Ribbons of rain licked the roof.
Iron clouds swallowed the sky.
The Storm, like a bailiff,
hammered the door.
For hours He hammered
and hammered again.
Like an unwanted salesman
selling us fear,
He stayed at our door
and hammered some more.

There was no use fighting;
He was stronger than us.
So with gritted teeth
and tear-soaked eyes,
we prayed for morning to come.

And it did.

I saw tall eucalyptus.
When it was winter night;
When the sacred land was surrounded by smokey mists.
Such an ashen emptiness, layered with clever fog.
I saw them during the starry night.
The shiniest star crossed their head.
The silver star turned orange when the night got deeper.
And then, all the grown up stars reached so near to the eucalyptus; seemed like they would fall on the leaves.
I felt the soul, was enslaved by solitude in the happy crowd.
Whereas, other thought it a hungry soul, absorbed in the profoundness.
I faced the serenity of nature.
Where imagination was defeated by heavenly elements.
Where castle of word collapsed like fragile house of playing cards.
I was a voracious traveler;
I walked thousand miles, heard my own tread.
The land, where I found peace under her shed.

I am afraid of taking staircase when I am surrounded by people.
I afraid they will pass me, I might left alone.

I am afraid of staircase, when it is made of transparent glass.
I fear to look up at the frothy view under it.

I am afraid of staircase, its bumpy steps frightened me.
I might slipped anytime.

I am afraid of staircase, I wish I could ignore my old tread;
Just because my instinct often tells me to look back.

Yes, I am very much afraid of taking staircase,
I am too frail to hear my toxic breath.

Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.’

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.’

The lamp said,
‘Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’

The last twist of the knife.