You look for your asylum
In the captivity of king’s chosen army
Of castrated eunuchs lying apart
Prostrated at the very close of kissing breaths
Never been so shy of seeing you denuded
In your only refuge in an enmeshed wireframe
They not knowing even in their hiding
How to hold the cups of your fondling breasts
Yet like a bumble bee you beseech in your hive.

Had you been a butterfly of the sky
Frolicking from flowers to flowers of the valley
To kiss the elixir of nectar in loving saliva
Of your soulmate of freedom and fire
Hopping like a grasshopper in jungles of grass
Quenching the thirst of your blue eyes
You would have been in the widening rainbows
Freeing yourself from the shackles
Of your enmeshed wireframe of captivity
From the enclave of the hive to your graveyard.

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Let me drink
From the cup of wine
Of your tears
Spilling over the nightlful moon
Of your stealing beauty
I will get drunk in your woes
My days never end
In quest of your nights

As the blue heaven fades out
Among the sighing woods
You decipher the hiding veil
Of your woes in mildews
And I fall at your feet
To kiss the last dregs of wine
Of your tears begging
The soul out of my breathing self

And now I am drunk
I am over the half moon
To sing in your sighing soul
As I am evenly guised myself
In colours of your woes
And you too get drunk with me
In deeper blues of your self
Of my pent-up feelings for you
As you fall dead in my cup of wine
Of your tears rolling down
The stealing beauty of your face.

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The sky is coming closer
Shining day has closed its light
Twilights rising and fading simultaneously
Shadows lengthening like sceptres of angels
Lazy winds weaving a web of mysteries
Following the whispered voices of the yonder horizon
Long day is passing into oblivion leavinng no songs unsung
Only the stars over the night are twitching their eyes
And the golden eagle shedding tears of the wingless valley
Like a stormy petrel sighing off his last violin.

Gods have prayed their last prayers
They have worshipped with earthly desires
All souls have finished their rituals in millions together
As if it is time to call it a day for the time being
As if it is turning point into the ages of antiquity
Human souls are upholding the worldly glory of delights
The dark river has flowed into the ocean in haste
And all birds have returned to their nests
At long last the long day has passed into the blues
To embrace the shy beauty of pains and longings
In night's blue sky lazily fading out in darkness.

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I needed a life’s nest
For a day in a bird’s nest
But I found no sorrows for a nook
Only a cleavage in a wall was there to look
And I twanged my long bow
The arrow refused to kill my mocking shadow
Right at the heart of my bone marrow
Only to come back the next day after tomorrow

After a long night flying
On a dizzy height of the blue moon shining
A sparrow fell at my weary feet
From its worried nest straight to the twilight street
To follow the course of my belittled destiny
In a manner to rebel against the mutiny
Of fire, fumes and smoking smoke
Good enough for the belying voice to choke

So we evenly gathered together
To the passing night’s pleasure to smother
The fallen sparrow had nothing to hide
Like the bereft wings of earthly desires to chide
Unevenly homeless as we were
We were likely to renounce the world as it were
Once again the sparrow fell at my feet
Crying soulfully for the reprieve from life to beat
The hostile burden of life after life to eternity
That breathed the fire of homelessness to futility.

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(This was written last year on the 60th. anniversary of India's so-called freedom from British rule.)

The celebration is on and right before the day's mid-night sun.
And there is so much gung-ho as ever. Right in the nick of the moment and in right earnest. With flying colours and mightbe with much fanfare, razzmatazz and razzle-dazzle for nothing.
And with blaring of conchs and mouthful of words.
And with riot of colours it says so many sweet-nothings.
It is 60 years' old but is yet to come of age.
60 years but not come of age?
Actually it is over-aged but yet not come of age. That is, it is aged or over-aged in figures but not in spirits. The spirit is full of beans. And that is all for nothing
What is there if it is still going on all fours?
Going on all fours is the index of its true face, the baby-faced facade of its 60 years' encumbering is all too evident in the annals of its naive amnesia.
How amnesiac its patrons and guardians are!
Yes, they have buried everything into oblivion to salvage their well-earned salvation. They have forgotten the days of 1975 when the holy cow was solemnly sacrificed at the behest of the Almighty and the bleary-eyed ghost-writers kowtowed at the altar of omnipotence to save her face with white hair-line and to reinforce her cathedral by scripting a new manifesto of songs of freedom.
It was witchcraft and witch-hunting.
The sacred river was strewn with skull and bones. The insipid potion gradually turned gray with the tears of Auswisch.
Nobody bombed for the fear of freedom.
And nobody dared to bare his/her presence.
And culture of silence hit the rooftop in cahoots with more somber silence.
All the Goebels fell to talking tongue-in-cheek with open-chested breast-stroke of machismo.
History is to be glossed over, history is to be forsaken in the brown pages of history. The pages are all too tattered. The humbugs say.
But history repeats itself. In both tragedy and comedy.
And comedy of errors emacted repeatedly. By the old campaigners time and again.
Now again the same ghost-writers are acting like animals of the Animal Farm crying themselves hoarse to glorify the songs of freedom for the same fear of freedom. Was '1984' a comedy of blunders? Who dare say?
The songs of freedom are splattered always all over, the dins and bustles are spilling over as usual as though they are racing one against another to show the world who is more equal than the others to be qualified for the olive branch in the Olympiad.
But they have forgotten that the 60 years’ toddler has failed to deliver the goods at the fair-price shop for those millions who are shedding bloods and sweats at the sweat-shops in excruciating diurnal drudgery.
What is that to them?
Nothing and nothing whatsoever to the bootleggers. Or, carpetbaggers?
They only know how to get paid in their own coins.
Moolah, soft doughnut moolah. Very pricey.
Everything dies. Only callous cash nexus remains for good.
The sweat-shoppers do not know how to sing songs of freedom or cry for freedom.
The street-children do not know how to dance in tune with the songs of freedom.
They just ask silently.
They ask violently in deafening silence with cymals in their hands. Reggae it is!
Yeh Ajadi Kya Hai? Jhuta Hai Ya Sach Hai? What is this big do of independencece? is it true or false?
Who knows.

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One never knows
By any faith or by any truth
Whether it is only the beginning
Or, the beginning of the end
That will come out of the shackles
Of crying bugle riding rough
Over the warring peace in silence

The spring thunder over the blue rose
Seeks solace in embers of praire fire
Never knowing the end game
Will ever be hoisting the flagship
In melange of truce in suchness of eternity
To lift the veil of mildew in corpus
Of an other big day so far in hiding alone

One only knows the day after
When the diffused memory blocks
The corupscular rising
Of smaller children's frothy smilings
That has never foretold the fairytales
In Mephistopheles' words of warring silence.

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