The right hand

The wings of the pigeon clipped off to the dying sun
and the moon stayed in the sky on path bent like an envelope
that would unfold to read the moods of the night
then the rapture to change the forsaken mood cheered
by sprinkling the wine over the shrubs but inside him remained
silent and awake with the living-smog and life-rust
the clean shaved ashen fresh faces with the tinge of a mint after-shave
stared at the rocking chair and turning off the pages of the Bible,
his voiced fluttered like a featherless pigeon on the stave
the day had become sleepless again as if the sleep was a
commodity brought on the black market- the dear one indeed

The Choppy SEAS

The force of the argument could yield aloofness in adverse conditions or on the choppy seas,

this is a beguiled trick a part of the trickery bag-  sailing on sails of dame-lame of fame and appear desirable to the nation free,

the devoured gigantic force betwixt the boats raptured the forty-seven swords of pirate men about the war on the seas,

what this leisure period of warring nations could afford?

the war was the beast, and it doesn’t mean we give up factions only to lie naked about to sex in peace.

Who would prosper?

I need a memory or philosophy with which I opine a long talk,

Which never goes dead in the poetic meeting or brings bold city to the temple


I went in the procession which opened in the alleys to the closed doors,

And I kept on walking with a thought that your city is strange indeed


Now my toes have got blisters walking upon and upon the roads,

I have been walking before I met and you and after I said goodbye to you


Neither I have met a traveller who is sitting comfortable with leisure,

Nor a hard-worker who after lots of struggle celebrating the day today


Whosoever sought skies in a firm voice together,

Everyone separated turn by turn at the hands of the death


And who would prosper?


On the way

On the way, we are sitting hopeful you and me,

There where is the feeling of song and voice comes,

we are lost upon the skies and the earth,

What the joy is in those words that torment us,

like a sword on the throat,

Are we made for the home that only rejoices the salt we eat?

Like the days and the nights are made a still wheel by the time
of the God,

And we are the thieves of the cosmos who while sitting keep on hoping in the self and only in self for each other.