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?

 

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The love portrait

Her wounds were hidden behind the creases of the shirt,

as if silky arms had got no marks of inconsideration,

when she turned aside the creases of the shirt,

and showed the roses and tulips of grief,

those were the adorations of love portrait,

which she etched upon her skin like words are etched on book,

that name of yours my beloved!

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.

The Noise

Before it is too late to tell

the death of silence is noise

not all noise is to yell

but the clamour for a poise

 

Reading crucifixion of Christ in summer

calls for obsession with the sun that is hot

And in climate only to craft noise to murmmer

but the late rain unintentionally is a memory blot

 

Wear upon us a design that is vital

now that is the harbinger of mood

what to tell about Fascist idea a recital

only to die within the mob centrist brood

 

I seek  peace with noise in the ears

crafting life without gusto year after years

 

 

 

Love is grief

At the centre of love is a whirlpool

cadence of which is known to the lovers

anyone who falls in it is a fool

thinking its a meteoric rise to power

 

but a sullen in the eyes of an albatross

who gigantic it may seem, undone is the colour

of money with lovers nailed on the cross

and in composure the sleep looses the pallor

 

from greyest hour till now

the whole world is but a fringe

on which is cast the gravest doubt low

and the foolish believe it with a cringe

 

that love is the solemn moment of importance

and does not depend upon chance