zakhamon ki batein in na karo
bahut chotein pahuchai hai tumne
maram lagane kind koshish na karo
hum nahi ban sake farishtey

maine tumhare aakhon ke andar ki aandhi dekhi hai
maine tumhari saans ginni hai
kya pata ki main kis din mar jaaon?
aapki galtiyon ki bare mein main kya batao?
saanse gin kar mein kabhi nahi thaki
taare, grah jo chaho le aaon
kitne baar maafi magun?
jab meri galti thi nahi

aaj thand bahut hai
saans lene mein taqlif hai
ab maram lagane ki koshish na karo
mein idhar ***, mujhe marte hue dekho.

Her mind is the lake
where the rainbow rests.
I stolen the lake
that she withhold to me.
now, I colour to my life
with the shades adopting from the same.

I'm so glad you can't comprehend the feeling behind
the word, "hate,"
enough to use it without an accent that removes its sting.
But I think "shavam" is not too far from it,
because every time you mutter it,
under your breath
my skin burns off.

I visited in the market
where the pain is selling.
I saw number of poets,
came to possess sufficiently
where displayed number of captivating pains.

Even though, my God,
I couldn't adopt
any pain fitting to me.

I shake awake in the sleep…
The invisible dialogues, unable
to distinguish from darkness
vexes me...
I have heard the sob of the horn bill of the freedom
throughout the half broken dreams…
you also may blame me like my mother
that it’s because not pray to God when I go to bed…
For how many ‘freedoms’
I've been kept decorated
in the living room?
the fishes in aquariums
are not the beauty kept in the glass pots
but freedom closed in the glass…
While the fishes argue that
the three quarter of the world has made for them,
looking towards the open canopy of freedom,
the love birds, quibble me from the cages
that what I caged is the word of ‘freedom’ itself.

Doubtlessly, creating Auschwitz cells in living rooms
how can I speak about the freedom?

Having exempted the birds towards canopy of indulgence
the fishes to the sea of the rights,
I went to fly in the freedom of sleep
forgetting to pray to God…
then, I know
the birds from the canopy of indulgence
and the fishes from the sea of the rights,
are praying God for the sake of me…

If it were a shirt or underwear,
I could have thrown it into that corner
This, now, is body
It is not enough to wash it the ordinary way in the bathroom
Have to give it to the sea or the river
Like giving the very soiled clothes to the washerman
Perhaps it will give it back.

This is the song of the handsome people
bleached white bones
dark red flesh
with wrinkles deep and old
as the desert.

Their arrows having disembarked
have faded into the
molten clay of the
mean-spirited earth.

Their heritage having been
habitually crushed with cause
for hatred has been
enveloped in peace and pride
and is cloaked in
dry hides.

Feathered in cold trails of tears
to match trails of aging
they have covered up their
misfortunes with song
and smoke.

Their rainbow carried by the wind
to some far-off pasture
rides on the backs of deer
and dead bison

to be consumed in smoke
and black flame.

Today, I have encountered something enchanting
Flowing through the outer forest, alighting
With birds and deer, All flora/fauna delighting
In her presence. I was taken to demanding
From myself a further look, reprimanding
my soul for wanting to see more of this beauty
Who could she be? This brown woman, set to soothing
my sailors heart? With another wayward glance,
She vanished- Leaving behind a memory, a missed chance;
And a man with knees too weak to stand.