I thought words have some miraculous power to communicate.
I thought human hearts can hear the whisper of eternal love.
I was wrong.
Human body is a better tool.
But religion and some sefish genes kept our bodies and hearts apart.
I knew religions are weapons of mass destruction and you worship some god who is always merciful to you but malicious to me.
And I know how weapons of mass destruction become a religion.
Your words heal my cancerous thoughts,
yet you chose to play with the poison and cyanide of whims.
Millions of miles away the star is
a natural habitat of flames.
Beaming beautiful rays of the sun
are the result of some cosmic games.
Life itself is the result of distance
but nearness to the stars will bring dire consequence.
You are my distant star.
Whenever I try to get near you,
my existence burns.
Me and my inner child
My inner child craves light
but I seek darkness deeper than the human body
deeper than the alien universe.
My blind child searches for the family tree
but I desire oblivion more manifest than death and nothingness.
My deformed child loves culture
but I want truth more naked than nature.
The irony is really great –
My child is like a lame lion
and I am like a dark butterfly
spluttering in the mist,
beating my feeble wings in nothingness.
The flowers bloom in the mystery region between light and darkness.
Crossing thousands of light-years the stars touch them with their brightness
of cosmic love.
The moon is maddened by their fragrance.
You see their relatives in the distant space are not only a few.
Those dying and bright cosmic rays generated life in the mud.
So the flowers that bloom in the mud have ****** intimacy with the stars.
Though the flower rots and the intimacy wanes,
the flowers of mud drink the dew of stars.
Imagine a world destroyed by glamorous weapons
and a prolonged period of nuclear winter is prevailing
when your eyes and dreams have become radioactive.
Cockroaches are reported to be the fittest creature in this scenario.
Imagine a world without enough food and water.
Will everyone of us become a gladiator?
Will only the cannibals survive the disaster?
Imgine a world engulfed by mushroom clouds.
Will you compose the poetry of carnival?
Will cannibals kiss their girls?
I am the loneliest planet in the universe.
There are no creatures in my rivers.
Only a tree among the mountains declares
the presence of life.
Some metallic animals toll my loneliness.
Each of my metallic friends has a natural knife.
Sometimes they test the sharpness of their knives
in my flesh, but I take no offense.
I have been waiting for fifty million years with the hope that
someone like me will find me in my cosmic loneliness,
but planets cannot come near other planets
without jeopardizing their existence
or without committing suicide.
Once, crossing a light-year,I took a suicidal leap
heading towards a bright mate,
but my mate considered it an attempt to ******.
People are fueling rockets nowadays.
They are chasing ghosts of Mars,
yet my villagers have only a nominal hospital and no good doctors.
I too dream about the exotic grasslands of alien stars
though there is no school for my autistic brothers.
Spaceships hold a fascination for me,
but I also have the fear of atomic annihilation.
I also suffer from racist abomination.
Wings of a butterfly are always fascinating to me
though my feet are deeply rooted in the mire of an infected shore,
and a polluted sea lies before me.