The spirit is all knowing

Running like a wild dog on

the worn out roads of countryside,

I search for the rain,

search for the visions

of you and spring.

Its dry as a desert.

Huge mirages with 

no oasis.

The spirit in us

is silent, thirsty,

waiting to go

home.

I write this,

my spirit being

nostalgic.

Some cities refuse to die

Some cities don't die.
They refuse to.
It just appears
to be dying,
in permanent decay.
This small town
I was born in,
its one of those.

The air is
heavy here,
each whiff
filled with
memories.

The decay is
forever here;
crumbling walls,
many lakes-
vestiges
of ancient Kingdoms-
names,temples,
forts
fading into
obscurity.

Unlike big cities,
children still play
cricket here.
Football is an outsider.
Dialects, people,
weather, predicaments
refuse to change.
The decay set in
long, long back.
So long,
nobody can trace
how long.

The city I was
born in
refuses to die.
It appears elegiac
when Sun sets in
evenings on
one of the many lakes.

A beautiful breeze
filled with music
reverberates
through each night,
refusing to die.

Haiku-I

Rivers at the foot
of mountains
streams always, like blood.

Never running dry,
its sad, happy,
stoic, meditative.

The valley
thick with forests,
sunbeams like spotlights.

Dust dancing,
like dazed drunken
actors of a bankrupt company.

I find strange
noticing these,
unlikely of me.

But, your presence
makes me
nuanced, subtle.

Nothing but dust

We are nothing 

But dust in the end.

All this to achieve immortality;

All the throat cutting.

Few will remember you

As light in their lives.

Those, whom you gave darkness

Will forget you, happily.

We are nothing 

But dust in the end.