the colour harmony!!

At times, love takes the guise of fake morality Preaching, the candle light path ways, While, loving you passionately like a deep blue night.   He paints his canvas, summer Like fire on his veins And pass like wind Unaware of the spring, mounting at the edges of his vision.   Just pause and turn back To see gulmohar fluttering beats of you and me over April sky Like butterflies on a flight   I am no sculptor to chisel a language out of your inexpressive eyes and sudden flashy smiles.   Why don’t you flow to me? Like an ocean after a quake.  

There is a point of time in life When, the word love overflows the four walled strokes of language To touch the most subtle corner of human imagination.   It’s a journey to your Bodhi From the most personal, of your fantasy.   You open your eyes to the world, for the first time And feel the pulse of the red earth On your empty wrist.   You no more crave for the body, he. Or meditations of eternal love. But some handy ones, occasionally For the vibes in you, Just in case.   And now, the world expands Far beyond your finite backyards To show the sea coming to you, the sky falling down in smoke. And to brood over silences of Guilt, land, memories and other stories.   You see love crossing your courtyard   And dissolving into, the streets of hunger and the abandon As ships into the Mediterranean. Leaving no signs of the pride, that was.   Learn to love the...

I wait for time Like pollen wait for wind. I wait for the night Like night waits for the sound of cricket. I wait for the next train Like rails waiting to meet. I wait for your smile Like a baby waiting for its mother. I wait for the sun Like rays waiting` summer. I wait for the dawn Like birds waiting for the flight. I wait for your shadow Like dusk over the sea. I wait for the holy mass Like sins awaiting penance. I wait for the wind Like a desert wanting green. I wait for your fingers Like spring waits after the snow. I wait for your lullaby Like the sky waiting murmuration. I wait for the pole star Like wedding bells in fairy tales. I wait for a nation, open ended Like clouds and the endless sky. I wait for my city To come by night I wait for the past To repeat. I wait for democracy To dissent. I wait in waiting rooms For distances uncovered. I wait at the festival ground For people to turn up. I wait at the foot of northern hills. ...

  You don’t write for a long time When birds have flown west and valleys turned brown, from the gold of the fall. Those evenings you sense your breath in your body, rhythmic like the sea at night. Deep blue, over the silver of the night. And, you wait for your myth to sprout, like baby Jesus. When midnight announces Revolutions, like destinies.            

By the time you near forty, You begin to enjoy your own company. You find a seasonal garden within yourself and roam leisurely, among birds and insects,      or look at the lone sky and breathe in the vastness it contains.   You realize, men are mere havoc in the life of a woman, glorious in her own terms.   The blurredness of distance and her clarity of vision. The peace she makes with herself. The long distance gaze of summer noons. Her moonlit sandbanks, amidst overcrowded everyday.   At forty, she awaits love Mild, sedimentary and distanced. Like a child counting twinkles at night.                

  The loss of a pet cat hurts more, when you are twelve. You have grown up, a bit more than your little brother who hopes to get another one. A bit more to realize, the hollowness of a replacement. And much less than your mother, smiling through the wetness of her eyelid to know tears wont bridge the gap between the grave and the years awaiting you.