Thursday, July 5, 2012


( There was no way for Gautama to escape Nirvana or

salvation )


You are the ocean.

A fathom filled with invisibilities

A mad thought in a sleepless night!

On the edge of madness

On the walls of pains

Vague lines conglomerate into heart-hidden pictures.

The thought that the roof

Of disappointment will fall down

Makes you laugh!

The heart filled with stony butter

Is valued better than water or soil or blood.

Knowledge of senses becomes the prison of thoughts

Truly, your depths have whirlpools

And your plains have tranquility

You and I should not have been impractical poets.

Mango grove, dinner table

Alcohol and meat

The pork lay chopped in colorful vases

You or I were not sad about the headless fish

A hammer in the hand, black hard muscles

And cowry laughter

The blacksmith was standing behind

You were drowning in the floods

Hidden on the dinner table

I wanted to tell that you should not be afraid

Of the rebels’ efforts; you too were a rebel!

Behind were standing the blacksmith and the merchant

We should not have been afraid in their murmurs

They might be saying that we should not glance at the lady

Dressed in jeweled attire

And that we should not think of her transparent sleeping


Of course, desires should be suppressed

They want us to do that.

Blacksmith… merchant……

Groves…. and the tavern…..

They own everything


It’s better to be channels not deep.

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