A Sense of Yearning

The prosaic strokes of her brush made her see The truth she had been trying to bury. "I can paint anything, Jim, but you," she whispered. "I have spent too much time trying to paint your eyes, While the real ones watched me from a distance. And like the end of an evanescing dream you faded And became the white of this canvas I cannot fill. Death, like you said, is just another colour from my box. Tell me, why can't my brush find your face? Have I buried the scent of your love too deep Under the stench of my paints? Will this empty canvas never show me your face And calm the storms in my sundry selves? Give me the strength, Jim, to face you again; To look you in the eye and ask if the sun Shines bright on the other side. Help me find The colour of death in my box, so that You can see me, once again, as I paint you."

In the shadows of a dead city she stood And waited for the sun to go down. Heidi had been a daughter, a wife, a mother, But never Heidi. She watched the remnants of a long forgotten song Lancing towards her from the medallion above And her heart looked for the listener; The one who had listened to all her prayers. "Now that my road has come to its end, Show me where I can wash these stains Off my broken skin," Heidi whispered When she found the listener, Playing his flute under an ageless tree. "You've come a long way, Heidi," he said, "You were too cautious not to fall, Which made you forget that you could fly." Heidi watched the hills falling in love with The abstrusity in the melodies he wove And said, "The hills look like a dream." "Yes, but a dream you chose to bury, Under the weight of your sins," he said. "You have been all, Heidi - You have been a seed, a plant and a tree But you never danced wit...

There lies a 'no' beneath every 'yes'; There lies a mask on every face; Every truth brings about a hundred lies, Like fissures above in the cloudy skies. The disarray of impressions always stays, And very noiselessly your morale sways; Like the boats careen without fear, And the boatman's child learns to steer. Veils make every answer obscure. Hope fights a disease without a cure. While the whole world burns in agony, Rules are bent by power and money. As the artist picks up his brush; As the young boy cries for his crush; As the astronauts count the stars; As the heroes fight their wars; The shackles ask you to be free, And a pen starts singing poetry; But there comes a question with every story - 'Isn't life the most beautiful allegory?'

The blind old woman whispered to me Shaking her debility off with a smile, ''You have eyes, my child, and light around you; You can draw a line between white and black. Use those eyes wisely, child, for you'll Slowly learn to see without their help; The darker it gets around you, The harder shall you search for a flame. One day, in life you shall find your light, And in that light you shall find your life again."

In the unnamed valley that reeked of death I met a man who couldn't die. A hundred decades he had seen, they said, And still death wasn't kind to him. I found him weeping as the sun set, Under a tree younger than him And when he heard me, he said, "Another man with a treasure." The pain in his voice hit me Harder than the lifeless wind And I asked, "What treasure Do you think I carry?" "Oh no, nothing that sparkles," he said Trying, and failing, to laugh, "But your ability to die." I sat by his side and said "People fear death On the other side of this valley, And eternal life is a fantasy." He held my hand and said, "Such a twisted dream perpetuity is; Can fool even the wisest of the wise. Things that are deathless Are the farthest from peace." I picked a dry leaf and asked, "Do you feel lonely? Every thing around you dies. You see death every day, Wishing somebody could see yours....

As I face the small time machine And the wires cuddling each other Like sinners in love, I find my answer. 'Go back and save yourself', they say; 'Go back and this time get your girl' 'You can undo your bicycle accident' 'Why don't you edit your career now?' 'You can correct every error you've ever made' 'You now know what you shouldn't have done' 'Why don't you stop yourself from going To that coffee shop on the 18th of May?' 'Go back and post that letter a little earlier' 'Don't forget to slap that sick professor' 'Go back and tell your friend the truth About her husband, without any fear' They all want me to erase All the wrong footprints on The sands of time, and they want To have a better life, A corrected, proofread life, Using my little machine; But will I be the same person Once my mistakes get undone? I press the key, turn the dial And find myself befo...

With every step I shorten This sempiternal walk. I'm the only one living This desiccate romance with This desert and its aridity. For a drop of life I beg to God Who's busy granting A million desires elsewhere; And the dry winds whisper In my ears the song Of my despair; but I keep on Because hope can keep Ẏour feet moving. I hear vultures sing The song they love to sing, And it satisfies me to know That even I can be someone's joy. Just when I am about to kneel I hear a whisper 'Look!' 'She has found you before You could find her'. And I watch before me An oasis full of elixir And the assuaging smile of hope Beckoning to me.

After the blustery day decides To draw the blinds on Sully, He tries to close his eyes, But the pictures won't go. His shrivelled hand clutches His last wrinkled wish, But he knows it would slip Like sand; and he smiles. He smiles and watches the ceiling, And the dying patients below, Relishing the last lances Of the ageing Sun through The misshapen window; Sully's eyes take the final dive And a whisper creeps out ''Finally I shall be free." It is the most beautiful lie He has ever told himself.

No more broken toys; No memories of fun; Take me home now, Mother, I am too tired to run. The promises of sunnier days Build the darker lies; Now everyone's a genius, But no one's wise. Take me home, Mother, Let your bosom gift me sleep. I am too tired to run now; I am too tired to weep.

I have heard of a place that's not on maps; A place where there's no room for lies; Where mornings and nights never make the kiss, Where every form of life is able, is wise. Where you'll find only faces and never a mask; Where curiosity is never afraid to think and ask; Where the one true religion has always been love; Where the endless sky is always blue above; Where the birds never know the fatigue of flight; Where the nights stand dauntless in the stars' light; Where no child is killed before even she's born; Where no heart is broken and no skin torn; Where nobody knows the art of building a wall; Where there is always a hand when you fall; Where lilies dance with a newfound zest; Where crows and doves share the same nest; Where the river quenches the thirst of all; Where a horse runs free and is never in a stall; Where the moon's always shy and the sun bright; Where you'll never have to fight for what's right; Where benevolence ...

A story can be found in fugacious blossoms; Somewhere even in the tiniest speck of time; In the misprinted sentence lost in a book; In the redundant whisper at the end of a song. At times a word is all you desperately need, Instead of a tome, and that's when you see How beautiful one word can truly be. The love that you find in one talking star Can put a sky full of them to shame. Yes, beauty is like a drug when short-lived, And in this ephemera lies the love you deny. Tell me, why does beauty have to last? Why can't love come and go Like one unforgettable spring? Why can't you watch a flower bloom In awe, without the fear of losing it? Isn't transient beauty like a conscious dream In which we choose to live and love Knowing that morning isn't far? How can it possibly be more bewitching? Is it not incredible if one song can Make you want to run and fly and swim? Beauty and love does not have to last; There is no such rule; there can never be...

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...

The rekindling of life under the cerulean sky; The redolence of love, and everything beyond; O Mother! Your art is unparalleled! Like precious little dreams the islands swim Against the weary tides of time And put bards and painters to shame; Such beauty, Mother, such beauty! As dusk drapes it wings around us all, The beach glows with memories and footprints. The homing birds against the hued sky Look like the flawless painting of a child; And that’s when, Mother, do I hear The tranquil sound of silence. The army of corals stand together to hold The Empire on their shoulders; Tell me How did you make an army so patient, So colourful, so mesmerising, so diverse? Do we even have the ears to listen to them? Like fragments of a beautiful story never written I see your art, Mother, Carry a rather light burden of life. This is where I had always dreamt Of having my first kiss with the sun. This is where I had always planned To fall in love. O Mother, how did you ...

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.

I happen to know a common pallbearer Who mourns all deaths around him; His eyes have the wisdom you’d expect But the light in them is quite dim.  He carries corpses; he carries them everyday, And never does he ask for the name of the dead. ‘Cause someday it will be someone he knows And the name shall never escape his head. Said he once, ‘Today I carried a little girl’ ‘Seven she was, I heard them say… My daughter would be seven by now, yes, Had it not been such a bad day.’ He still believes the little girl heard His whisper, in her box so small; ‘Sleep well little girl, whoever you are, For this sleep eventually comes to us all.’ ‘Had you lived a little more, child, You would have known how the world looks. But don’t be sad, for it’s not as beautiful As they lie in your colourful books.’ The pallbearer sees an obscure face, The face of his daughter behind a veil, And a smile; The smile that pulls out tears; And the smile t...

"Once upon a time", began the blind old man "There was a sea as endless as time; and It reeked of stories of survival and death, But none could wait to watch the waves break. A sailor lived once, I don't remember his name, Whose skills did put the others' to shame; He'd conquer the sea, they would all shout And the sky would rumble at the scream so loud; That day, and the ones that had shone brighter Will be drawn by a kid and poetised by a writer- A hundred years from now, just a hundred wee years." "One fateful night, the storm wanted to play With the one little boat that struggled to stay Afloat; and the sailor heard his name loud and clear Shooting back from the hungry waves far and near. He kissed his oar, for the last time he could see, And closed his eyes to embrace the open sea. He was found a day later, on a plank, alive, But the rest of the boat was gone, like life. The sailor searched for her, from daybreak till night...

Today, it is someone else. Through the thick curtain Timothy watches His mother, building his future. The man should slow down, he thinks Maybe a little less rough, like the night, But he goes on; And Timothy looks away. He should act asleep, he knows But the silhouettes dance like demons Over the young eyes full of questions. The lantern flickers its flame, but Fails to hide the dark. Timothy picks up a crayon, and thinks How to colour the demon on his sheet; 'Will I put a smile?' he thinks, and then Comes another muffled scream from behind The curtains; Yes, a smile is needed, he decides. The sheet is soiled, but he does not mind. The man moans, sighs, and stands up While Timothy wonders What this final sigh is about; The man walks out; Yes, a smile is needed. Timothy draws a broad one on the face Of his demon, and looks at his sheet 'Shouldn't there be many heads?' he thinks When his mother comes and sits by his side; Her lips bleeding,...

"I watch my daughter place the flowers Over me; wipe a tear, and smile; The smile, more effulgent than the flowers, Lingers on; The smile matters; The smile that can alter the scent of death. Not a Sunday she has missed, ever; Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit By me, and talk about the love of her life And smile demurely; I wish she knew I listened to her; I wish she knew how I Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks; I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into The bosom of womanhood; I am just Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears; Death is the finality; This I had known and believed; The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness; But in death did I realise the worth of living; And that none in the world mattered, but The ones who call me back.” “My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be Too asleep to watch you run your fingers Over the name of your father; I see the same moon, the same stars In the...

The woman beckoned to the phantasmal apparition That stood by her bed, watching in pity, her weary eyes In desperate need of a long sleep sans the anguish; She looked at him, and a smile broke its way out From the vicious corners of her horizon-less world; In the ghostly figure she searched frantically For the pair of eyes that had once housed The promises, the cures, and an enormous castle of sand; But darkness was all that stared back. The woman pulled the blanket down, and looked At her son, by her side, asleep in the shade of tranquillity. The silhouette bent over his son, and the woman Felt a soft puff of cold breath kiss her skin. And then from within the shadow of a man once alive Came the  whisper, in a voice awfully bruised, "I wanted to watch him grow." His fingers reached the woman's teary eye, but All he could do was pull more tears out; Only then did his eyes fall upon his medal; The medal of honour, they called it; It lay on the table Wi...

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?