Me and a crow

To me

A crow that perched on the wall

That grafitteid by hunreds of words

And me, a shameless patriot

Who sat on a bench in the tea store

Where chauvinist and fanatic sit by side

Actually that crow and that me

Are the adherent of the strange ism

Whether it is waiting for another loaf

And I’m waiting for the wordings

That could ease my longing soul!

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New-ism

 

The Not-self that snuggled down
Hover as beetle around the corners of the fifteen and twentieth floors
Fade away promptly within the runway before it soars up through the window span.
I took a sigh of a sorrow-less wizard in the digital speed!

Henceforth he wont be imprisoned  inside the bottle of morality anymore
Rather muse about the aliens
And then fainted within the planet without any intention.

You won’t find an alley over there
Even in there Holy Lexicon
Therefore air show goes on
Through the absence of “happiness”
Alter-self wondered after seeing the Phoenix Kites
that glided around the empty sky!

Life of the middle age always throbbed, always sweats
Dips the scripture which has already been lost it’s inherit necessity
Hence, the old Chinese and the Indian treatises manifest
Ardently besides all entreaties

Let the triumph long endure
Of the Indians
Of the Chinese
Of the watery philosophies

Let brace the impact of the original
Which manifests in the open eyes
Become tangible easily in the palm
And the logic full of cup brims easily!

The filthy fate has already been burned thoroughly
The new-ism is already placed its stance
Fuming the silence and sizzling the vile

Bequeath the greatness of the realm of water
Through the water flow
Through the sorrow-less stream
and yet my new life!

 

The window-pane

The window-pane in my imagination is always green but vain

It’s the television of the manifestation of my bliss and pain

Even though the thirteen years have been gone since it was pour into rain

I still sniff its rust game of the tarnished frame and eager to see the train again

Yes, the old train is whistling while its crossing the old hill, mesmerizing!

Oh my sweet darling please joint into this mind streaming yet I became an annoying

Something!

Here I’m again

Here I’m again

As the blobs of Paper-realm

In this ever changing world.

Where the mother of paper losing its origin

And I’m the fool seeking for the rule

Looking for a change.

Wouldn’t be worthy?

Remain as unworthy!

Not seeking, just see

Not doing, just do

I’d to remember

Before I firmly hold a pen

‘The realm of poetry is sacred and never changed’

And I’m the only who seeks for a change as avant-garde grand!

 

Truth has to win finally

 

Long-awaited death
waiting on the top of the green hill
The crest which is unrealistically silted up!

yet, the chat will goes on through the triplet notations
and the drops will drip in the restless motion
until the truth wont manifest from the withered garden.

In the garden where poppies used to grow through the whim of tropical wind
hence hadn’t been flown to the Afghanistan or Arabs-tan in this span of life time
Rather had to remain as a vagrant of music freak
while all the melodies and cadences fell muffled
as they blatant my alter-self stumbled

therefore the death will bring me to the top of the hill
where the one never encountered with the justice
rather beloved within the sensor-ed world of Peter Paul Reuben
and the man who was more fond of Gibran than Rumi,
Along with Laozi and Gautama who’s hymn like words dragged him in the alley of mystery

Perhaps, who will have adorned by prophet like aliens one day
or with a kind, who is the true king of his own realm
No doubt left about that
Behold, at the newish uncontaminated sky
And the truth has to win finally

 

 

In this late in the evening

I had a guitar to strum it in the park

Only of the dalliance with a tree caused to forget you

The broken drums set and the invisible Piano saying

The golden sexophone with its broken teeth saying

I want you, I want you darling

In this late in the evening

 

Very lately with this witherd physique

after crossing the Himalya

And yet, thinking here onto the Alpse

To draw you with the dried up brushes and colors

And thus floating on the boat of the painting

Yes I know, its very late!

Umm, its very late!