That night has come again,
That curtain has the night wrapped up,
And those shy eyes contained everything,
When the day broke the cuckoo of heart burst weeping,
Singing the tale of separation to the prophet of the sun
A poet-philosopher putting head in heavens and heavens in the head
That night has come again,
That curtain has the night wrapped up,
And those shy eyes contained everything,
When the day broke the cuckoo of heart burst weeping,
Singing the tale of separation to the prophet of the sun
The life is a morph of doubt and hope
To do the love act in doubt is to have hope for time to come
In this melody is a fame of silent ghost yet clamouring for both
doubt and the doubtless sky.
I would recompense every penny for thy offence
of belittling God to mere image of the unknown
what is known is the futile product of carnal act
To satisfy the desire to be able to comprehend the
works of God hidden in the expression of nature
Which has forsaken all that was not needed and
adopted what the man deemed to be his essence
The essence of man is thus educated stem from
the tree of knowledge that bears fruits in abundance
If I could set the heavens, I would set the guitar
If I could love the stars, I would love the sitar
what could be the end of the universe but the music
of the spheres interleaved with the rhapsodies of war
with itself and in the eyes of the storms, I could love you more
with my bestowed heart. Let’s sing the song for cosmos with forlorn power
The hands of time flows silently though
making the cursory move to chime like dove
and then wake up the boulders of ether above
-an imaginary solitude to stay alone and suave
in the picture perfect to say still for a friend or foe
And time does not wait for your hands to show
signs of life, grace or be a doe.
The best move is to keep silent
how to do the damn things?
To play the chess is to kill the boss
Strains my eyes and the brain to muffle
through the envelope, looking for a love pic
only to find a torn letter but perfumed
Nonetheless God is great to all those who seek Him
to the others He is the dead end of the materialism
He cannot even look for himself in this ideal world
Exist with the panache of a cowboy
stymie down the chessboard with a mock
of a lover lost in the world on a busy day!
Who is busy?
A bee or a lion
a lover indeed !
The rain dances too
upon the lashes of you
I see the stream of love
falling drop by drop
on the orbs of yours
The purple hue of hair
and the purple smile
all do the charisma
like the seasons
all because of you
I happen to chance
upon the glimpse of youth
when I was younger with you
and you said waiting is like hunting
the sooner you kill the prey
the sooner its all over the play