Lost

Treading on a strange road, 

Whom a dark forest engulfs. 

Passing through the prickly goad, 

know not what enthralls. 

A thinking man with a long shadow, 

With my back to the sun. 

Reaching for the elusive rainbow, 

All I know I have to run.

I know not where the road leads,

I know not where I am.

Rustling leaves the breeze reads,

Path below my feet feels a sham.

Oh my nonchalant parched heart,

What is it that you seek?

In the deep forest, like a hart,

A dreamy land you keek.

A stream that plays its music,

Surrounds the wonder land.

Nothing of amuse, it’s so tragic,

For it longs for the Neverland.

The soul knows the secret deep,

Though the mind lies in a frost.

A promise it strives to keep,

The promise to be always lost.

Penchant Dreams

Rustling leaves in an enchanting forest;

deep within a soul cries.

Leaves are dead, yet they make sound;

with each breath he so tries.

Balmy air, don’t go the farthest;

yet the inkling of the desire.

A laughing man, whom sorrow hound;

the habit of playing with the fire.

A stream's flute plays the strongest;

when the mountains breaks the ice.

At a binging heart, beats the devils pound;

give it the pain, but doesn't suffice.

A fakir walks alone into a land strangest;

whom the heralding dogs denounce.

That empty mind has wisdoms round;

he knows not why they trounce.

Falling rain ebb to the sea largest;

it cares not for the echoing screams.

Those mighty steps, are surely profound;

like dancing with the penchant dreams.

The Coming of the Ship

   So, on the 2^nd day of the year, down with a bad cough and cold, I confine myself to my bed.  A balmy northern breeze, unexpectedly warmer, is caressing my face. And a warmer sun is playing hide and seek with my feet. Through the leafy branches of a tree, I can see tufts of gloomy clouds trying to cover up a lazy sun. Just like empty thoughts jostling for space in my mind.

                It feels nice. Nice for finding some time for yourself and not getting bogged down by the monotonous monochrome maladies of life. Often I have wondered about all the efforts we put in our daily lives. To what does it round-up to? Another year passes by and getting older by another year. But are we getting any wiser? It’s incommodious as too many antagonistic thoughts queue up the thinking wagon. Pages of a national geographic magazine adds fuels to the thought fire and my heart clings to its deepest proclivity.  

                Someone somewhere starts playing a mouth organ. These kind of tunes can make you nostalgic instantly and for a moment you stop and turn back to glance at the road you tread. A montage of memories fill up your thoughts. What you dig up from these reminiscences is not under your control. But just like the tune of the mouth organ, let it fill your soul. Life is not always about doing things the right way. If you always try to measure up things and fret about them, it is actually that very moment when life passes by and you fail to notice it.

                Random, chaotic thoughts embezzle my senses and I seem to drift away into a faraway land where one’s life is like a utopian dream. But sometimes, such a feeling of a chaotic mind helps. One must spend time alone for introspection. It is the time when your soul opens up and you begin to comprehend the essence of your life and how it should be. You begin to recognize yourself. It is the time when you allow the mind to meet the heart and you begin to unravel your yearnings. 

For a moment the sun hides behind the clouds and I come back to my senses. Now the sun, through the leaves, creates crisscrossing shadows on my face. Somehow it reflects the state of my mind. I remember a fragment from the chapter ‘The Coming of the Ship’, in the book ‘The Prophet’ by Kahlil Gibran:

“A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun”.

Wise man's paradise

I know not how lame,
is the colour of your game,
am not a person sane,
to my life, am a bane.

Life's open arms do greet,
treading feet is in discreet,
mingling of mind with wine,
thoughts filled like crine.

Riding on leopard time,
old scars still chime,
gives me secret elixir,
boon to wisdom's triter.

All happens for a reason,
to self-faith looks a treason,
but it is the lesson I adore,
as is found in oozing abhor.

Letters to Anita : The Letter 5

The principles of love are not defined by doctrines of wisdom. It is an untamed force that knows no prodigy. It is but a simple flowing river, fed by rivulets of hope, which empties itself into the ocean of desire. Its path may be strewn with numerous obstacles, but it still goes on. And when it cannot meet the ocean, it floods the plains of wisdom and kills itself. Ocean unfed by the river, starves to death. It then vanishes into thin air and does not return again. Then on some fine day, maybe in a faraway land, clouds gather at the abuttal of heart and mind. And it rains again into the parched earth of desire.

Anita,

Stop writing these letters to me. You are just hurting yourself. I know you love me very much. But I love someone else more. She is not perfect, but perfect enough to reach my heart.

You sent me a leaf, probably from that tree where we once sat and spend hours talking. You were always a very good friend of mine and I hid nothing from you. I will always love you as a friend. Because that’s what you are. Where is my long lost cherished friend?

Some nights, you walk down to my home and put the letters in my letter box. You take great care in writing those. I know you try to instill love in my heart. But you don’t have to. It is already filled with the sweet love of friendship that I have always cherished. I will keep this letter in the box for you to read. I hope you will understand. 

Yours only true friend.

She wept under the tree which once shaded her from the harshness of life. But now the tree seemed like a grotesque monster ready to devour her with dark boughs. It seemed peaceful now. It will be just like the old times. A river was flowing through her heart and it has flooded the plains of her wisdom.

The principles of love are not defined by doctrines of wisdom.