Aniruddha Pathak Poems

Those that death, defy
And those that never ask why,
Never would they die.
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I still remember Madhavas1 so well,
A water-hole to unwind in sweltering June,
From crusty school-fields to dusty farm-fields,
And do-nothings— morn to night's silver noon!
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This patent, said queen-bee does for long
To me only and wholly belong—
For working from one's home,
Not from the office dome,
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Set out to search for wicked,
I found few were so crooked;
When I delved deep unto me,
Oh, none was evil like me!
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Why despite His immense bliss
A tragedy like this
And why fate's such cruelty
Should of all happen to me?
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Forgive a fault or two in others,
But never those of thine, me brothers,
Advice this, of great rhyme,
Has worked for a long time,
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Today is the Farmer's day
Who, works with soil
For days together toil,
Seeds of labour to lay,
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Man's is useless passion, a thinker said,
Life is futile, a foison of stale dreams,
And not worth all the fuss heretofore made,
Which, more is made, more futile to me seems.
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A girl wore a long burqua1 at work,
But look at now time's peculiar quirk,
What she said starkly strange,
B'yond any belief's range:
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I hope to enjoy morning sun
Whilst drinking drops of fresh dew
Balancing snugly upon you,
Worry not, I won't be much burden
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