Ears & Voice

My ears, forever refusing
to sleep alongside my eyes.
Restless,
they long for a voice.

An eternally sweet voice,
seasoned by Mediterranean's golden sun,
borne from Delphi's prophecy,
bursting forth ever since.

In the veins of spring's grass,
in the autumnal dew,
in the wintry fog,
in the tree trunks

its there biding its time
to meet my ears.
The air can't carry,
for it lacks the art.

Maybe I hear it,
I hear it all the time,
in orotund baritones,
in your honeysuckle voice.

Random VII

Now, when you are walking down
a dark alley,
suddenly, stars flood your way.
The light suffuses you and the darkness.

It burns through your flesh,
turns your bones into ashes.
Swept away by the wind,
your remains are washed away.

For, you'll combine again
when you want,
when the alley's darkness
no longer remains to haunt you,
to hurt you.

Random VI

Broken glasses, empty seashells.
They have swallowed the echoes.

Standing on the shore,
the eternal desolation of waves seeps in me.

The sand is insistent,
it denies the overwhelming by water.

Here, in the empty desolation,
today is tomorrow and tomorrow is today.

Maybe, a ship will come, carry the desolate
or itself become desolate like the broken glasses, seashells.

Random V

Lean from the starboard
of your ship.
The sea is rolling, calmly
each moment, defined,predestined, identical
The full moon makes it a mirror,
an icy blue mirror.
Don't look down, at the sea
the tendrils of your hair
might cleave it,
might break the mirror.
Just look ahead,
reflect the icy realms
of Atlantic in your eyes.

One day

One day, when the soaked raindrops

will ascend to the sky,

and the petrichor of the March of 873 B.C.

will be released from the soil

and the Sun would be new

and the moon would not have born

and the Everest would be a tectonic fault

and all the rivers would be sea

and all the glaciers would be ice again

and all I have done,

would still have to be done.

And then, maybe, I would

do it all over again,

inch by inch, second by second,

breath by breath,

till I find myself again

writing, waiting once again,

for reversals.

. 

Where do you work?

Walking along, the wind whispers in my ears.
The trees warm the songbirds in its womb.
Its a cold chilly winter night,
an old copy of Pushkin's poetry in my hand.
By the moonlight, I try to decipher Pushkin,
some old friend had asked me yesterday
"Where do you work?"
I had simply stared, turned away,
clutching Pushkin tightly.
I work, Neitzsche lights my fireplace.
Being jobless and studying,
a strange and difficult art.
My hunger douses my fireplace.
My thirst slows my pen.
I work at the godown,
I am a carpenter of ideas,
old and new-give me any thought-
I'll fashion it to your time.
I am an amateur thought artist,
infantile brushstrokes cover my notebooks.

Random IV

Across the road,

beyond the glass panes, 

there is nothing,

nobody waiting.

Wake up, wash your face,

look in the mirror.

Search for the remains of dream,

crusted on your eyelashes.

Swim up, swim up

come to the surface of water.

Lungs may not hold up a second more.

Its sunshine, bask in it.

Across the road,

beyond the glass panes, 

music plays, coffee is brewing.

You're not alone. 

Random III

The crimson sky,

swords of sunlight,

fall through the glass panes of my window.

The swords trace 

patterns on my empty notebook.

Its pages white, bright shiny.

My hand in mid air,

pen clung between middle and index finger,

making unintelligible shapes.

White page, shiny, bright,

crimson swords on it,

cut through my conscience.

Long and wasted years

spent, burnt away.

Faces, years, friends, foes, nobodies 

rush past.

Crimson fades, slowly

to light orange.

The swords losing the edge,

the steel melting,

the pores of conscience closing.

Memories turned about,

present restored again.

Light orange, suddenly

drops into darkness.

I light a candle,

near the notebook.

Its pages, white, shiny, bright again.

November,a little bit more smile

November is there again,
its left foot stuck out,
inside the threshold of time.
November, strangely,
does not fall in any season.
Its neither chilly nor hot.
Its sweet, contemplative.
introspecting, light, slightly windy.
The accelerated breezes
just reach a little bit deeper
into the bones,
form a litle bit frost
on the veins.
The hair on the arms,
a little bit more sensitive to November.
Right now,
its a little bit early in November.
A little bit on the wee side of November,
and then,
afternoons will start flowing into evenings.
November,
a little bit more mysterious,
a little bit less light.

P.S. : November owes a little bit sunshine to Thomas Hood and L.M. Montgomery .

Black, Green and White

And, maybe what you see is not the truth at all.

And, maybe, all of it is a stage play.

Maybe, life is a treatise on theater.

You play multiple characters.

Change morals and principles,

according to character's psychology

-each passing second-

change costumes.

Go into green room,

apply glycerine,

apply paints,

chalk a new character.