Rain

Those dark clouds,

Brighten me,

Lighten me,

Enlighten me.



The humidity of silence,

The calm before the storm,

The cool embrace of the air,

Suddenly defeat the might of the Sun,

And yang goes the yin.



Messengers from the firmament,

Moisten the farmer’s forehead,

And moisten his eyes,

With the tears of joy.

The cracks in the parched earth seem to disappear,

Swallowing up his miseries,

Which get mixed with the soil,

To yield him the fruits of his labour,



Without sorrow, there cannot be joy,

And without misery, there cannot be man,

For bliss is but a child of suffering.





The rain falls,

Lashes the streets with all its force,

But will the concrete go away, to let it meet its sister the soil,

And have an orgasm of the beautiful smell of wet earth.



It falls in sheets,

It falls in drops,

But will it be enough to fill the crevices in my heart?



Children play in the slush,

Adults fall into it,

After all, the rain is a return to innocence,



In the muddy puddles,

Paper boats sail, like hearts content, and like empty promises,

Plants green grow, as if the entire liveliness of life, was oozing out on this single day,

And faces glow, like faces glow.



The droplets hum a song of Nature,

Invoke the earth with the trumpet thunder,

Lighting like a spark of light,

Penetrates her,

And impregnates her, with the seeds of tomorrow,

And make her what she is- Mother Nature.



As the rain falls,

Clothes become wet,

Translucent with their unimportance,

Transporting us to nature,

Away from hypocritical morality,

And into the lives of our origin.



But this rain must not last very long,

Yin and yang settle their disputes peacefully,

The Sun has agreed to be kind,

And Winter will follow.

As for the rain, it leaves us with a seven coloured smile.



Oh this rain,

Brightens me,

Lightens me,

Enlightens me.

The Feudal Sheep - A Poem

As I wait for my turn,
the hour of death beckons,
the butcher’s assistant - the hand of death,
pushes me along,
jostling for space in this deathly hour,
not for the pleasures of heaven,
but for death itself.

The cold winds blow,
extinguishing the fire of life, in the hanging carcasses,
the tender meat full of life,
hardens into death and non-being.

But the soul never dies,
though every cruel death takes away a part of it,
a parting gift to the soul-less creatures who take away.

The line is growing longer,
but I move forward,
to take a giant leap,
I am consuming the flesh of my brothers and sisters,
but the guilt consumes me no less.

I pray that the axe may not be kind to me,
and take away my life at once,
and not prolong my transition,
from this world to ..........

Outside, where whole herds wait,
there is a deathly cacophony of deathly sounds,
but the most deathly of all sounds,
is the sound of silence,
and it grips the ghosts as they reach the butcher.

I stare into the sky,
the happy stars burn my eyes,
the light is too much for my dark life,
Alas! brightness comes to one at death,
perhaps, this is the light at the end of the tunnel,
I stand in the tunnel,
with the the darkness at the end,
the stars make signs to indicate the inevitable,
they seem to move very fast today,
almost scurrying to rearrange themselves,
as each brother and sister dies,
so they be not born an animal,
in their next life,
but, can the attribute-less soul of ours,
carry the heavy message,
after all,
the mighty humans have diminished it to be a figment of theirs,
nevertheless, we carry on.

The Gods are on our side,
but men.......

Epicureans have made us Schopenhauers,
fatalism surrounds us,
as we move along,
into the jaws of death,
but why blame Epicurus,
for these are pleasures of the intellect.

At the death of life,
we stand with our muscles relaxed,
recollecting our lives of death,
events suddenly seem connected by determinism,
life laughs at us cynically,
“You recognized the pattern, too late”,
But, aren’t we determined to do so?
Why are we destined to this destiny?

Hollowness,
a void appears within,
life seems to be a distant memory,
as death waits patiently,
testing the butcher,
these are matters of taste you see,
and the cut must be clean,
as clean as blood, flesh and open wounds.

Why is death saddening us,
after all, we are destined to die,
but that power is best left to Us,
or some higher power,
our parents were separated from us,
are “better” ones among us bred profusely,
aren’t we the subjects of an old philosophy.

The night has moved on,
leaving us in the embarrassing sunlight,
our carcasses rot away,
and the sun dries them,
turning living flesh,
into cold, hard meat,
we were born to die,
and die to be born.