Weed

In that strong gale
Am a quivering blade of grass.

When the night breaks in,
In the grass lands I lie
Casting a swooning shadow
On the moonlit meadow.

The early rays escape me
But reach the reaper
Dwelling far from the
Shadow of the hills.

The morning dew
I preserve
Is still afresh
And here comes the sickle.

The clown

We thought
It was just another performance
And there were chuckles

As he was buried with
His tears, His mask and
His gown .

Music

Unperturbed and undiluted
By the din.
Like the eight directions
They chattered
In silence.
Or was it music ?

The octave engaged in a symphony
Scaling each other
With ease
Of a conductor's signs.

Dusk fell
And they dissolved ;
The silence fled
And the noise returned.

I am surrounded now
By a different silence.

The conclusions were made.


( eight mute people conversing on a railway platform;
Courtesy : Gunjan Verma)

Solace

Somewhere distant
Near the horizon
Whirlpools and vortices
Are everywhere.

As a warning
The waves rise in a distance
But they reach the shore
In submission.

Her tears well up
In the high tides
As she rises up in vain
To reach the moon.

Solace is often found
By her
At the shore
In you and me.

Space Trip

You said the world was a dark place
And showed me the moon
A window out;

We then flew and settled
Amidst the stars

You said the other galaxy is new
Lets check it out
And I followed suit.

Now, we are the end of universe.

Lost

I would archive it later;
The evening spent with you

I would paint myriad images
Of the hills, of the moon
And many more

But you, me and us know
That all I was doing
Was looking into your eyes.

Cliched

I converse for hours
With the mirror
But it is your eyes
That blank me.

The moment of silence
Heartbeats in tandem
So close we are
Yet so far

In cliched expressions
I describe you;
And I realise
Language has limits.