if death could
excuse the little errors
of life
then how come
most human heart
engage in remorse
and remain
trapped in condolences
to their own choices
and still breathe
in agony of separation
from the sweet truth of existent
and guard the memories
of happiness
in the little
mortal substances
contrived by time.
lover, be awake tonight!
because the first man
was born out of love.
wrapped in blue hue of seasons
and figments of innocence
devil was once a lover
before
the invention of words
like crime and punishment
and each life for each star
was a story of heart
not science,
but then it occurred
a chaos created a mind
and along the heavens of simplicity
a hell was designed
change was time's only accomplice.
in memory of god and lovers
Rumi's soul marched toward Ghalib's town
Iqbal's horse of revolution and ego
was slained for crimson corruption
and Faiz was agonized by hijr
the new lover
was naive and ignorant
and the old was perishable
and the cursed poet
loomed around
each letter
of this incoherence
in between the pages
of writer's block.
so if you do not understand
the intention
behind such speechless syllable
make no worry the gift of thought
let a better acrobat perform
for the joy of words.
to the angry mountains and sternest clouds,
possessing the charm of an ancient woman
and might of disabled gods -
"Monsieur, monsoon is not a good excuse for discipline
even an old serpent has a way of revenge
in the voids of modernity and garden of Eden."
if so, i agree that man shall learn
eventually, death is religion of life.
and then there are those
who distribute the pieces of expired progress
while i mock at them with the pamphlets of calamity
and in between the deceptive tunnel of truth
are well kept mortals, enshrined for destructive facility
and you, Mister remain aloof and green!
but when, in the fabled nature of religion
the poorest of poor come for disagreeable demands
likes of which are not polished with vocabulary
you bully them with sound and fire
and thus i shall complain to lord above
about the nature of the tip of your nose,
about the way the trees conspire with the air,
about the dance of death composed by the river,
about the evil army of endangered animals, birds and insects
about the misleading moon and the burner called Sun
about the little mistakes of man being rewarded
by the mythical daughters of Satan
as they churn the sea, the earth and whatever
in reach of their desires and thoughts
while the potion of life is else where,
somewhere in New Delhi or Gujarat
in an air conditioned room or mall
in front of television or mobile phone
in the name of Sonia Gandhi or Narendra Modi
or the national ghost of justice.
possessing the charm of an ancient woman
and might of disabled gods -
"Monsieur, monsoon is not a good excuse for discipline
even an old serpent has a way of revenge
in the voids of modernity and garden of Eden."
if so, i agree that man shall learn
eventually, death is religion of life.
and then there are those
who distribute the pieces of expired progress
while i mock at them with the pamphlets of calamity
and in between the deceptive tunnel of truth
are well kept mortals, enshrined for destructive facility
and you, Mister remain aloof and green!
but when, in the fabled nature of religion
the poorest of poor come for disagreeable demands
likes of which are not polished with vocabulary
you bully them with sound and fire
and thus i shall complain to lord above
about the nature of the tip of your nose,
about the way the trees conspire with the air,
about the dance of death composed by the river,
about the evil army of endangered animals, birds and insects
about the misleading moon and the burner called Sun
about the little mistakes of man being rewarded
by the mythical daughters of Satan
as they churn the sea, the earth and whatever
in reach of their desires and thoughts
while the potion of life is else where,
somewhere in New Delhi or Gujarat
in an air conditioned room or mall
in front of television or mobile phone
in the name of Sonia Gandhi or Narendra Modi
or the national ghost of justice.
