The Birth of The Flow

The next best thing to death is sleep. The debutant said:
“Believe it is true, believe it blindfolded,
Do not ask for explanations.”
‘Coz the answer had been repentant since repeated eternities.

The colours perceived through the kaleidoscope of time
Manipulate the perception of soundings,
Scribbled to estimate the depth of the mantling lake.

Out there, shelterless, sits the placid lake,
Flowing for long,
Though, from above, it is as still as any other could be.

But no one knows, (rather no one wants to know,)
That below the serene surface there is a violent turbulence —
A violent whirlwind in the water,
That had been raging since the birth of light;
The times when the knights did not exist
Because the days were yet to find sight.

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Walking Across The River

Flowing Into the River

One summer evening the river strolled silently.
(Led by me,) we too trudged along:
Me and I,
Walking together towards a common goal
To reach each other across twenty-one furlong.

Between us, through the solitude and blank desertion,
Flowed an innocent and oblivious river.
With purpose of its own; transforming wishes
Into errant endeavour of measured motion.

I faced the river and peered through my veneered eyes.
There, on the distant other shore stood me naked and unwise.
I called out loud, but could not hear myself.
Waved, but definitely could not see myself.
Something separated us:
The ignorant and deficient river.

Years have passed together,
We are aliens groping the darkness.
Mark of a hypocrite:
Not to learn oneself in its medicine of sickness.

A blissful anomaly, felt by each other:
Standing apart the stream, we were attached to the swans.

Awoke together, together asleep we fell.
Watched every sunrise and admired every sunset.
Between us, with its vigour and weakness,
The tides washed still.
We had no willful choice to stare
But at that towering and monstrous hill.

The river of taboo, but follows usual course,
Merely that we two are born on unknowing opposite shores.
The distance here, is meaningless than meager.
There is no renegade ship or skimpy boat to carry us home.

As a last resort to reach me,
Through the covert of the willow tree.
I take up my quiver,
Make my choice:
To walk across this hollow and unbeckoning river.

Looking Down At Myself

This was written years ago, on my eighteenth birthday. (I intended to respect myself and not make any modification to the original script.)

When I look up at the sky, I see not any stars;
Nor do I see any planet, moon, cloud, neither any comet.

What I see are faces.

Faces, looking down at me, speaking to me and calling me…
Every face forms a star; and every star — a face.

Weird faces!
Some laugh, some cry, some mock
And the rest haunt.
Some of the faces are known when some of them are strangers
I know those strangers. Don’t I?

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Life Again

Today I woke up
And things happened!

Soon, I’ll go to sleep, dream
And try to ammend.

Tomorrow I’ll again awake
And more things will happen.

Again I’ll go back to sleep and dream.
So, what does one recommend?