For you my wandering desire rise
Beloved, on my both palm,
For you only my vigin love
Is weaving hym after hym of psalm.
There are two thing in this earth-
One is too scarce and
Other is too abundance.
Scarce is readily to get but
A translated shayaree
Don't ask me how i got hurt.
Friends, don't ask me how i got hurt on my forehead,
I want to ask a question,
Time; Are you running to fast?
But i know he will smile and say,
'I don't know what is slow or what is fast,
O' soldier don't tell me you fought a battle.
That wrangles of words, this mine that your's,
Who's bullets bended, who's arrows offended,
One's dead sob or other's drums rattle.
Don't waste the inks of my pen.
This piteous pen awaits for me
Only to draw a metaphoric language.
How moment passes by the window silently,
Neither day informs when he arrives
Nor night bids a good bye.
No sooner we indulge in a moment
Beneath the calm bluish
Among the fragmented cloud pieces
A angry sun is hanging above,
Watching the broken and crushed village.
How can you entice
My barbarous heart?
By a little weeping
Or by a shower of babbling mouth.
She was born as a lotus pedal,
Mud soul, free to get wet and lively,
Hunk who hate hunbandry, abandoned her
She didn't die as a lily.
With the fountain of sunset
My eyes drain to a dream.
A second i slept like a log
Awake; conciousness behold the unconciousness.
Before a day i thought
Today after a day i am thinking
Shall i go to pilgrimage.
One silly foggy dawn
When sun was still reciting his first stanza
I stumbled and woke for last-
To begin my villanelle.
Runners, sometimes please look back,
Lovers, please keep the hate botton on,
Soldiers, sometimes sell your your weapons,
Because 'sometimes even right is wrong'.
Some stoppage leads to some-what calls that
All shiny shoes and colors of hats,
Along all the topsy-turvy and strong
Little lanes and some too long
Poem is not simple combination of words to verse, but is the expression of soul and mind........ Great people said great things; and yes i do also get inspired. But to me it's not the end. It is like a question to me that, 'now it's your turn'. 'Two sorts of writers posses genius- One who thinks and one who cause other to think' - quoted. I am as all you are, holding a half refilled pen, few blank sheet spread over the desk and bitting the nip, starring on the white clean sheet for some reason to make it marked and dirty. Honestly i am little odd; but if you give me that reason that you hate me, my reply will be the same reason, why you should like me.)
If And Then
If beauty is a gift
Then what is deform.
To me it is not curse.
If beauty depends on insight view
Then purify your reflection
To me deform needs nothing to nurse.