Oh Yes this time
a Gift is sure to hit your face
i know i been such an ass
Now i have seen the light
in the Love of our fights..
Marriage may be delayed
but i will never be delayed
to say "I love you'
Like those dews
at Back Home
Whether it's winter
Or Summer...
The Dawn always cooks the dew
but there is few
to notice it
But i am not one of them
and I love you
not as few
But as Huge as Blue
Of the Sky...
How much do you love me?
i know the answer
It's greater than Universe
It's as Obvious as the beggars'
Cry out of Hunger....
Dont you Love me, Honey, My Sugar?
For the Hero I have lost....
Delhi,
It was the beginning of 2008
End of February
We were preparing a story
Recollecting our History
to tell on the stage.
It was the story of the Torches
We didn't know the Torches were your soul
Never we thought the stage was your body
Never we learn the words were your last cries
Later in Kangleipak
the spring popped up from your grave
the mountains salutes your death.
the peasants parade to the fields to harvest.
But my clock sand has stopped
As so many faces of yours in my walls popped out
As I see you always inside the room
Upon the Mountains, Into the rivers
As I hear you in my own cries...
How am I supposed to learn
Not to remember the words of the story?
How should i find another beginning
Leaving all that behind?
We often mourn together
Remembering the Man who burnt himself to death
we often sigh together
reading the news from Homeland.
O my Hero! O my Brother!
Where have you kept the story
Of the Old man who tried to smoke
Without a light?
Did you ever tell me the end of the story?
What had happened to the songs
which called out the peasants
To the battlefield?
I suppose the old man at last smokes
without a light and stop the running river
I suppose the story ends
With the Rainbow color flag waving in the sky.
I suppose the peasants wash the rust
Of their sickles with blood.
I suppose to see you in Autumn again
And let's laugh forever
It was the beginning of 2008
End of February
We were preparing a story
Recollecting our History
to tell on the stage.
It was the story of the Torches
We didn't know the Torches were your soul
Never we thought the stage was your body
Never we learn the words were your last cries
Later in Kangleipak
the spring popped up from your grave
the mountains salutes your death.
the peasants parade to the fields to harvest.
But my clock sand has stopped
As so many faces of yours in my walls popped out
As I see you always inside the room
Upon the Mountains, Into the rivers
As I hear you in my own cries...
How am I supposed to learn
Not to remember the words of the story?
How should i find another beginning
Leaving all that behind?
We often mourn together
Remembering the Man who burnt himself to death
we often sigh together
reading the news from Homeland.
O my Hero! O my Brother!
Where have you kept the story
Of the Old man who tried to smoke
Without a light?
Did you ever tell me the end of the story?
What had happened to the songs
which called out the peasants
To the battlefield?
I suppose the old man at last smokes
without a light and stop the running river
I suppose the story ends
With the Rainbow color flag waving in the sky.
I suppose the peasants wash the rust
Of their sickles with blood.
I suppose to see you in Autumn again
And let's laugh forever
indian sky
Under this Indian Sky
How high you can fly?
They say your home is far
And you don’t have car
To drive that far
I know you are not lost
But here you can never be the host
I know you are bit stranded
And your life has been branded
Take a deep breath and chew the rice
And listen to your conscience
You will hear the soil calling for your sweat
Better be a son of the land
than with no roof above the head
How high you can fly?
They say your home is far
And you don’t have car
To drive that far
I know you are not lost
But here you can never be the host
I know you are bit stranded
And your life has been branded
Take a deep breath and chew the rice
And listen to your conscience
You will hear the soil calling for your sweat
Better be a son of the land
than with no roof above the head
fuck you! intellects
You sound like semi Hindustani classical music
Why we need a history when we worry about future
The singers have sung poems of love
Once a while they sang of phoenix out of the flame
But they soon lost and caught up with love songs
Why we need a history when we worry about future
The singers have sung poems of love
Once a while they sang of phoenix out of the flame
But they soon lost and caught up with love songs
blue bird
Have you heard of “Operation Blue Bird?
Fourteen lives were lost
They were all shot
The killers claimed
They tried to escape
Post mortem said the bullets
Were fired at the back of their heads
And have you heard of a football player?
His words “Please do not shoot me,
I am a football player” were the last ones
After the bullets were fired .
And how many lives have lost
How many husbands didn’t return home
After the brown took them away?
The wives are still waiting
At least the bodies.
Fourteen lives were lost
They were all shot
The killers claimed
They tried to escape
Post mortem said the bullets
Were fired at the back of their heads
And have you heard of a football player?
His words “Please do not shoot me,
I am a football player” were the last ones
After the bullets were fired .
And how many lives have lost
How many husbands didn’t return home
After the brown took them away?
The wives are still waiting
At least the bodies.
that's me
If you find a drunkard
In the mist of winter morning
With sleepy eyes walking
Towards nowhere land
that is me
If you hear another poet reciting
Poetry in the middle of the market
Criticizing how full is your pocket
Laughing at your dirty teeth
That’s not another Ginsberg
That’s me
If you listen a rickshaw puller crying
In a mid-summer day
With his torn hat of hays
Sitting on the smelly wet leather saddle
That’s not a cry or a new fable
That’s me singing
Imitating the Fascists’ Killer
If you see a beggar walking
With bare toes on summer’s heated road
With no coins inside his pot
That’s me feeling my love of the land
That’s me letting the world go ahead
That’s me getting rid from the bullets
If you find a tree
With no leaves in spring
With no birds on its branches
That’s me
Being cursed for all the poems
I have written for the truth
In the mist of winter morning
With sleepy eyes walking
Towards nowhere land
that is me
If you hear another poet reciting
Poetry in the middle of the market
Criticizing how full is your pocket
Laughing at your dirty teeth
That’s not another Ginsberg
That’s me
If you listen a rickshaw puller crying
In a mid-summer day
With his torn hat of hays
Sitting on the smelly wet leather saddle
That’s not a cry or a new fable
That’s me singing
Imitating the Fascists’ Killer
If you see a beggar walking
With bare toes on summer’s heated road
With no coins inside his pot
That’s me feeling my love of the land
That’s me letting the world go ahead
That’s me getting rid from the bullets
If you find a tree
With no leaves in spring
With no birds on its branches
That’s me
Being cursed for all the poems
I have written for the truth
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