Thursday, July 5, 2012


Writing is not an evening walk,

Neither is it a dream

Burning in sleep;

Nor a wet thought,

Nor greed

Rising in the mind

Of a street walker

Or blighter

It’s not a wing fallen

In the city square

In drought,

Nor a scolding

By a Cyclops

That drinks

The glowing embers of sufferings

Nor a “for sale” lust

Within heightened walls,

Nor a smoky depressed sky,

Nor the hallucinated

Eyes of the opium eater

Nor a hiding

In mountain passes,

Nor legs chopped off

In the chill of battles lost

And won

Nor the hell-heaven fancies

After death,

Nor shivering hymns,

Nor faith fighting wars,

Nor the hide and seek games

Of those scrambles

For seats of power

Nor the nuclear fission

Of a thousand suns in the sky;

Nor the smile of a New Buddha,

Nor is it the humble mind

Standing enslaved

Before false masters,

Nor the ocean

Where those masters drowned;

Nor the red fill in hearts

It is a gift from the depths

It is a sob rising from heart burns

On awareness of hunger!


(The rest, reader, you tell me!)

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