I will mourn not your death, Cause you only existed in words For your silence has murdered Many innocent lives, precious. In the stillness of time, that refuses to pass by A poet’s hope beyond life and death, Conjures democracy like never before. The wake of a new era is calling, The silent commune of […]
Frozen between time and space Lost in natures concentration camp I had to forgo my identity by face Religion, caste and creed, what a shamp? With several identities while I fiddle It looks like an epic, this riddle Narrated with elegance and style The fable takes you far a mile For reasons beyond
In our own land, when we become a nomad, Destitute of land, stolen the home had, By the self-proclaimed democratic rulers, Winning the votes of thy own farm producers. Their tiring feet walks past woods a several miles, In search of tranquillity and a new utopia; Vowed under the declaration for ten deciles, But finally
Rogues of the land, power in thou hands by addiction, Arrest Krsna the prince, the lord! Under sedition, For only having spoken in favour of solidarity, A remonstration in silence broke for popularity, Like the falling pen mighty; when it strikes the floor. A fall still broke not; but the words inked strong and
Poetry does not grow ripe for us; we have to grow ripe enough for the poetry. Rightly said by Kamala Das in her Autobiography “My Story”; is no less than poetry in itself initially addressed to a prudish reading community in Kerala. More than an autobiography, I felt like it rang the bell as a
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I eloped on a horse; the scent of her satin blew up in the air; While she galloped along; sitting ahead. The stroke of her flesh induced more Life in to mine; The Life which had forgone ordeal of great confines; In conquest to chase my dream; Swords spit fire; Shed blood, deep dusky red-hot