An innocent bliss, an alleviating zephyr and a soothing rhythmic sound,
A Victorian architecture, of grey and white, would offer joys profound.
Who stole my innocence? Who snatched my wind? Who created this melancholy?
Heart beats disbelief, agony writhes in frustration, numbness encumbers soul at this heartless atrophy.
Is it hatred? Is it revenge? Or is it an assault mindless and indiscreet?
Hoping, for the city of spirit (my city) to spring back (once again) to its feet.
In remembrance of all the innocent lives lost and all the brave hearts. In remembrance of the two SP Jain Juniors who lost their lives to this recklessness. May their souls rest in peace.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
At a crossing..
At a crossing, near the old Banyan tree, as the traffic goes sour,
On my windows clean, tiny hands would rest, a face would conjure.
Nails ridden with dirt, face with dust, hair unkempt and clothes messy,
Disgust they would, my body would shrivel and my eyes would stare and not see.
Rains would anguish and the winds would distress – that face would not relent,
I wished it disappear, why me, should the face torment?
Then one day, at a crossing, near the old Banyan tree,
Hands would not rest, face not conjure and my window empty.
My soul choked in repent; ponder why, for the sight I detested to discern,
At a crossing, near the old Banyan tree, for that face – I now yearn.
On my windows clean, tiny hands would rest, a face would conjure.
Nails ridden with dirt, face with dust, hair unkempt and clothes messy,
Disgust they would, my body would shrivel and my eyes would stare and not see.
Rains would anguish and the winds would distress – that face would not relent,
I wished it disappear, why me, should the face torment?
Then one day, at a crossing, near the old Banyan tree,
Hands would not rest, face not conjure and my window empty.
My soul choked in repent; ponder why, for the sight I detested to discern,
At a crossing, near the old Banyan tree, for that face – I now yearn.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Why would I then rile, displease or distaste?
I am the provender of life; my benign smile evokes ecstasy and upholds peace,
Rile my flares, trouble my essence and life as you know shall cease.
My wake stirs life; I am the messenger of serenity and accordion of bliss,
Peace with my soul and pact with my heart and, nothing shall go awry and amiss.
My trail evokes life; I am the curator of order and harbinger of faith,
Appease my spirit and fate shall chance good taste.
Forever indebted, humbled, awed and in righteous wake,
Can my love and loyalty tantamount with your sanctimonious partake?
Why would I then rile, displease or distaste?
Or is it care that speaks and does heed in bother berate?
Rile my flares, trouble my essence and life as you know shall cease.
My wake stirs life; I am the messenger of serenity and accordion of bliss,
Peace with my soul and pact with my heart and, nothing shall go awry and amiss.
My trail evokes life; I am the curator of order and harbinger of faith,
Appease my spirit and fate shall chance good taste.
Forever indebted, humbled, awed and in righteous wake,
Can my love and loyalty tantamount with your sanctimonious partake?
Why would I then rile, displease or distaste?
Or is it care that speaks and does heed in bother berate?
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