Let me sing you a song on freedom!

Let me sing you a song on freedom
It has been going on for ages, and
I couldn’t hold it anymore,
It has indeed started to harness its own will
Against my claim that I am still a free man!

This song on my freedom,
It cries in its morbid soliloquy
It plays my part, it plays your part
And you and I, somewhere under a gloomy sky
Recite many an untamed verses, and they thought
We are here for the waiting, for a brighter tomorrow!

This song on my freedom,
It summons many a trial on me
It seeks many unsound reasons!
Yet, I continue to sing
Listening alone, like a cry
For numerous gallows, in a single cry!

Let me sing you a song on freedom
Let me sing you a song on freedom
For your freedom
For our freedom
It has been going on for ages, and
I couldn’t hold it anymore!

Requim of a lost Dream!

My silence and the darkness ahead
I feared, what if I looked damn for a demon
In the dark, without a word for the soul
Standing in silent vicissitudes and
Ever approaching living dreams,
Like a staccato in a rhythm
In some wintry evenings
All bleak and hoarse, and
My being came to a halt
In audible screech…

And, My friends,
They proclaimed of a dream
And the dead song, unequivocal
Of the dream, dreaded feared, for
A requim in the dawn, of
Some late risers, like
You and I…

Then,
Every one of us
In my silence
Called me a dead poet;
But did we know
I was long dead
Even for a dead poem
That I recite in our numerous graves!

Forgive me my friends
I did tried to weave few dreams
But it seems
We are singing songs of dead
Evermore!

m still happy

i tried hard to weave a cocoon
but the seasonal weavers have already harvested them all,
i tried hard to fake a corpse
but the occasional nightmares drove the dreams away,
i tried not to die a deluge in the ocean of poems
but the anonymous fireflies bring me my private literature!

you may not have known,
i have tried to conquer my heart and body with listless steps
but the gait, it has taken my back a toll,
i have tried to save a morsel a day through the hopeless nights
but the earnings have lost the chequered in the midst of tears!

but i am still happy with these little pains here and there
but what i abhor is me wraping in half-eaten mulberry leaves
even the silkworms in *Ishok Ching*, they have their dues cleared
before the moths mate, with few coupling here and there

Cactus and Poems!

I buried my poems
With my body
In a barren dream
And plant a cactus
Above the insoluble grave
Of fear!

Next morning
I found myself with sprouts of thorns,
Thorns, everywhere
In my chest, everywhere
In the body, for every hair;
And the poems
They resurrect
As thorns!

Of each poem I betrayed
There is a thorn, and
They grew like quaint dreams
Of December, and
My poems with every concoction
In its easy demeanor and
Craven of weary words, hushed:
‘My body is still buried,
Dreaming and still worshiping visitors;
In dreams, in a vainly wrought coffin
Of hope, for a future yet to impregnate!’