Our Children Weep Tonight

As I variegated the lazuline sky with a rainbow

And painted the greens of the lush plantations

I watched you, my better creations, joke and laugh

While you were washing the colours off my canvas.

Your ideas have become the grunge, which

Now smiles all over my crimsons and blues.

Oh, for whom did I paint this earth, child?

Why did I induce the fire of reason in you?

Can my tears ever absolve your sins, or

Cleanse my anguish off my ripped flesh?

Say who is, if you aren’t my own child?

I don't want you to crown me a halo of lies,

But sit and weep a little with me tonight, will you?

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A Dream

I live and breathe like a misplaced dream In this labyrinthine construct of time; Like a flower that blooms in the wrong garden; Like a kite that soars in the wrong sky. I try to find my place in this maze; Where the horizon is a cerulean haze; Where children are taught how to lie; Where a flightless swallow dreams to fly; Where tears burn the eyes like a pyre; Where simplicity gets butchered by satire; Where justice is just like a starless night; Where compassion is always a lost fight; Where deaths can kindle an endless debate; Where love is defeated by war and hate; Where colours of humans put seasons to shame; Where despair is the prize for the agonizing game. I watch, I cry, and I wish to be born In the distant future; For one day there’ll be A world that cares, a world that dreams; And I will find the right sky for my kite.

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The Riddle

Says the poet, “O divine little sunflower, You make my pen and my heart stop. There are no limits known, the enigma Of your surreal beauty cannot reach.” It is a fear that lingers in the rhythm; A fear of letting her watch his naked heart. It’s his love the poet shall never speak of. “What if she refuses to bloom?” Fear has myriad shades, but this shade Was no stranger; “We share a bond,” He says, “And for her I’m just the man Who waters her and watches her bloom. I am nothing more. I am nothing less. But does she know her place In every dream I have? Has anybody else Watered her the way I do? Has anybody else feared To not wake up to her effulgence? Maybe she knows,” thinks the poet, And he asks the Sun, who knows all, “Does she tell you about me?” When the Sun goes down, the poet watches His little flower, still dispelling all the gloom, And his heart yearns to believe, “She knows.” A poetised riddle is what they share, and he Accepts, a poet in love i...

A Sense of Yearning

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