It Is Nothing Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

IT IS NOTHING
Richness sustains a man's life
and human nature gives nothing,
or tells of a man were a legendary Karan
or Jesus of modern life,
wait for a sprite with untamed chariot
yoked to wild horse and a nailed Cross,
it will end up in nothingness.

In bitter and sedating hush,
earth does not speak,
it breathes and at times explodes,
eagerly waiting for the Third War,
while colonizing the vacant sky,
for a predatory is crazy
striding out beyond horizon.

2
Another age of calamity and wreckages visits,
controls the moon and the sun without telling
if a man digs and devours it is quiet,
if he strangles and wipes out, the age is silent.
He spreads fire
and without a grumble puts off,
spills blood as she feels sad
and digging she carries on,
the mother earth endures wordy talk,
handiwork of earth requests man to love
and here is enough to live for years.

While on the riverbed in a hot afternoon
below the hill, with hurt feelings,
I continue to walk.

No legend is born as enigmas whisper
and river sacred is ever silent.
Eyes gliding the Dhauladhar range
look sad and mute,
nearly dry as Himalaya is quiet and desolate
to locate life in greenery,
as snowy hills seem satiated with music.
3
Just in sixty years now all parched,
as leafless tree-stems and misty hot sky stare,
snow is scarce neither poetic nor prosaic,
a yellowish life haunts,
while a visit of warriors of Kurukshetra
disturb the area to find Gods in an epic
in search of a sage, who refuses to bless,
for women of present age do not look pure.
I stretch out limbs that break into tiny pieces,
legs tremble and twist and cracking sounds fall
but salvation eludes,
as voices strike insight in doomed mayhem.

I am a hypocrite words invade,
and tell I am awake
and elongated cryptic eyes seem dead.
(from the Collage of Life)