Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.
this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.
The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.
We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed.
In winter,
when it rains saffron
instead of snow.
his armor, is a vest with holes,
shabby shorts with a mosaic formed
by the stains of oil,tea, ashes of cigarette and coal
a foul-smelling cloth graces his shoulders
that sweeps the dust from the tables,
coincidentally it comes from the very stars
to which he prays sometimes in night
independence day for him,
is about selling his freedom
and a dozen flags,
a free plate of jalebi,
from the nearby school,
is the only reminiscence of the place
he was once born in,
he lives inside creaking doors,
surrounded by walls
capable of collapsing
by tremors of continuous coughing,
paints his dreams
from the acrylic color box found in a dustbin,
with bare hands on newspapers,
and scrapped sheets
he has no regrets
he might never have,
for he has never seen
the sun of expectations
rise in the morning.
the moon of contentment,
is what he only cares for.
as the dawn
proceeds to the dusk,
a thousand images
of this beautiful world,
rotate and change,
sublime visions,
evaporate,
my capillaries,
and adrenaline
burst straight up
like a heroin abuser
drowning in a pool of dreams.
for I have been summoned
to peek in this kaleidoscope,
we sometimes call life,
and I just stare.
the mirrors would shatter soon,
the music will slither in,
it would be dark and damp.
Just as I dreamt once.
that night.
an amicable smell
from the dried grasses
after the evening drizzle
and the turmeric laden idols,
that fuses into memories,
like reopening dust laden book,
in the house that greets waves
with eyes closed and an absence
of discord
even souls here burn
and wash away like a dried
incense stick on voyage
to nowhere and everywhere
the cows ring bells
in harmony and unison
there are no beds
but the dogs and humans
sleep alike
in comforts of a ground
that caresses unequivocally
in life and eternal death.
the smell has gone now
now concrete, glasses and woods
stink of success and fervor,
something terrible happened
really terrible.
drops are torturing my patience,
slowly traversing the spine,
In a frozen lake,
incensed with the dead past,
hymns and chants,
the mist and howls of winds,
kiss and dispose me,
a flesh impure for offering,
I believe
I lie on the ice naked with you,
seeking the last ounce of warmth,
through your curves,
I traced every inch,
in the dying moonlight,
till you slithered my neck,
and kiss me one last time,
with fear in my eyes,
an ocean of ecstacy in my heart,
and a smell of incense hemorrhaging my brain,
I sleep for eternity.
In the state of remorse,
the howls shatter
glasses of nightly silences,
the white floating sphere
conjures the dead,
the living and
all things existing
in between,
near the window,
my breath now sighs my restlessness
and imprints it on the mirrors
of existence,
the dearth of materialism within,
tickles the soul
into a mocking laugh
that echoes in corners of sleeping valley,
maybe that is what,
requiem for a dream is,
and maybe that is why,
the wolves howl in moonlight.
Writings to Heaven 