Mystical Road.

Epiphanies, by the window,
All white through the day,
Then brows tear apart,
Seeing through the haze.

Judgement, falls through,
The wide gapping hole,
Then light sits within,
The contested soul.

Sweet melody of illusions,
will find its end,
Bonds linger awhile,
Then letting go.

Darkness sits aside,
Now a light holds,
The magic crystal,
Of the eternal soul.

Flying on the cosmic highway,
Beyond the speed of light,
Now it’s time to unite,
With the mystical road.

99.9%?

In the wake of the Mumbai terror attacks of November 26th, 2008 in India, I had awoken a different person. The terror attacks were unprecedented and unimaginable by a city that never sleeps, strolls or walks, rather it is always dynamic, ever-changing and fast. It has left a nation in the midst of an economic boom, flustered and humbled. India is a country that has been plagued by communal and religious terrorism since the advent of independence from British rule, back in 1947. This country of over a billion, where every religion on earth has found a home, has been infested with excessive poverty and negligence. The political bureaucracy has turned the masses into commodities and numbers, where the scream of each one is lost in the massive cloud of a billion people. The political, judicial and legislative systems of the country have been demeaned and dismantled by the power hungry political parties that only indulge in the “blame game” and “voting numbers” game.

Today’s world history is being marked by innumerable cultural and economic battles, leaving only the innocent dead. In a time, where the separation between the rich and poor, the politicians and the commoners is increasing exponentially, is there still hope for peace? I remember, watching a speech President Bill Clinton made to the graduation class of Harvard 2007 on Class Day. He mentioned a fact, which has been known since we begun to understand our beginnings. “Each human on earth is 99.9% identical to the other, anywhere in the world. Then why do we continue, to only focus on the less than 0.1% that is different.” And he went further to explain that the underlying cause of all the angst was the fact that, that 0.1% has become more important to us than the 99.9% that is identical.

So, the question for humanity today is, will it be possible to accept the fact that we all are the same, irrespective of the vast superficial and cultural differences that less than 0.1% of variability causes? I feel, the fate of humanity might be resting on the answer to this dilemma.

A God Awaits.

The wheels of time, I turn,
A maze of life, I construct,
The whimsical war zone, I sculpt,
A broken identity, I proclaim.

The hanger of life, I flood,
A brutish laughter, I launch,
The watery love affair, I convey,
A swollen reward, I discard.

Turn inwards, a god awaits.

Final Stride..

The soul worn out, life lost its’ lusty persona,
haunting mystery, hope filled misery.
The tunnel of obscurity had come to an end.
Helix of life rested, resolved, sadly un-twirled.
The fallacy had faded as did the lies.

My chair stood still, as my mind swiveled about.
Years squandered to insert myself in a webbed corner,
All evaporated in a moment, leaving a dusty shadow.
Now I took my final stride,
As a pile of blistered ash.

Ms. Jii.

Hands worn out, not touch
Eyes worn out, not sight
Mind worn out, not thoughts

The lines cris-cross her palm,
Creating an illusion of wisdom,
For all they tell is a tired tale,
An old woman with a young girl’s heart.

Dust has settled over her lids,
In the lines created by incident and pain,
The burden of years has stunted her height,
But behind the lids lies the truth untold,
The fires still burning
And the dreams still craving.

Sagging body shows the trails of defeat,
Her hairless head exposes the damage,
But the veins that run across spill the truth,
Of rich red blood still rushing,
And pulse burly throbbing.

A figure so small and fragile,
Holds a stick for support,
Unstable walks and trembling hands,
Make it hard for her to show,
The steady will her mind follows,
And dreams her hands can hold.

“Don’t be fooled by my persona,
It is only a show,
The body gets weak, and the mind gets sure,
That’s called being old”

The old woman yells,
with a spark in her soul,
“The fires gone, I’m no fool,
But the warmth still lingers,
Letting my soul forever grow”

coming of winter..!