Aniruddha Pathak Poems

A point of his perennial plunder,
Sometimes I do shudder to wonder
If this Earth were mankind's last blunder,
Or a hell be to ‘nother world;
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Kneeling under the span of open sky,
I bent down trying to reach the wet sand,
A fragment of swept-ashore shell in hand,
And wrote upon a patch of beach swept dry—
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Better off if are we than ere were,
Why we still squirrel things in our bill?
Why our smiling face should go so rare?
Why man greeds forever the more still?
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Words, words, enough of worry,
Words without hands nor yet feet;
If one word is remedy,
Other's like a wound, to wit.
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Varsity it was of rare renown,
Of wards well-grounded, never kept down,
Where wordy nerdy wise
Seldom would win a prize,
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Eons, and rocks turn into sands
And the wheel of life takes its turns,
Not for a second whilst it stands,
And life from death ever returns.
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Cadavers of forgotten truth
Carried on from an ancient age,
Kept imprisoned in golden cage,
All alive once and in prime youth,
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If most wondrous thing about world be world,
The charming most a charm in you is you.
I see this, my eyes with your beauty blurred,
Truth has own ways to show its truthful hue.
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With a tender touch
I did feel a Touch-me-not
That folded up, ouch!
Perhaps the touch that I thought
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He who has never ever
Failed at least once somewhere,
That man I think rarer
Be than Moon's surface air,
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