Responsibility

You pelt stones at me, 
I will offer garlands;
You could take me for
A lunatic, an ignorant, 
But I will not water the plant;
You'll soon relieve me,
I will still let you be.

My ability to respond
Will unconditionally
Set me free.

The countdown

When the lockdown will be
over and done with,
when we'll walk past
the nonstop distancing,
when we'll again go to work,
when the world afresh
will be free from
the deadly virus,
when we'll regain
our lost freedom,
then we can sing to us,
'Hey buddies
We  did it, we made it,
We have really overcome'.

Life will be back to normal again.
Leaders, caregivers
aren't working in vain,
their efforts for sure will pay
happy days aren't far away.

With hope in every heart,
life can resume, restart,
with faith in every soul
we'll achieve our goal,
with resilience in every mind,
we can put our exile behind
with sparkle in our eyes
we can regain our kingdom
we can see the sun rise,
it is of no surprise
that the lockdown will surely end
the countdown will soon begin,
let's stay put for some more time
let's together count our blessings.

Being in prison

Act I

I am in a prison,
in love with the
prisoners,
its regiments;
strange as it
might seem,
I can clearly see and sense
the gates are left open.

Act II

I am in a prison
charged for a
number of reasons,
for my lies mainly;
but strange as it can be,
as far as I can see
I sense that nowhere
ever before I felt so free.

Times

Times

Colourful words
lose their hues;
a rainbow,
in black and white.

Times

Unclean mind
cleaning hands,
healer, under the weather
utterly confused,
time and effort, abused.

I am History

I am History.

Do not talk to me
about conflicts,
the ones you had
with families, relatives
friends, neighbours,
colleagues, and
with neighbouring countries.
You have shown your unquestionable
integrity, sincerity, honesty
in keeping alive animosity
through unkind words,
self-destructive thoughts,
delinquent actions.

I am History.
What is so special about
keeping dead discords alive,
reliving hatred, rewriting same stories
in my pressing pages?
Get rid of your destructive box
and write something I am yearning
preserve, talk to me if you have resolved
issues, melted cold and silent wars,
standing in between yourselves
as stubborn, imperceptible icebergs.

I am History.
Talk to me when you can display
the same sincerity in friendship
that you have demonstrated
for self-molestation, self-degradation;
I want to read the same integrity in kindness
that you have shown in being enemies.
Talk to me when you can uphold
the same authenticity in healing
than in killing, the same honesty
in mending relationships.

I am History, a unique teacher,
if you fall prey to your same nature,
results will be that of repeated defeat;
if you conquer the deadly habit
you will lead towards victory,
it’s not difficult, no mystery,
look inside the folds
of the flora and the fauna
read the pages again,
rewrite your destiny.

I am History.
I would want my looks to change,
the age-old green room
traps me in a cage,
give me a hand I desperately
needed for so long,
play a different song
and sing along together;
all maladies and malpractices
will naturally disappear.

Silence

The much travelled roads
Of conflict, arguments,
Discussions, debates
Cannot take talkers
To the destination,
Listening to the silence can,
Only silence can,
Only silence.

We're looking outside
For the ways to be free,
Being on the inside
Is the source, the only key.

What you say or do
Is not important,

• What you think, is;

Be at ease please,
It's never too late
To sit and meditate.

Light of love

I couldn't understand you
My world, my love; I fear
There were rough and smooth
Patches we walked through,
The rich and the poor sides
Of being in love could
Perhaps never find the truth,
They lied on the ground beneath,
On the kingdom above.

Is that what made us part
Our ways? Our intimacy,
Being in love, didn't it ever
Make any sense!
We're going back into
Our tiny nests,
Fighting our battles,
Our struggles of being
Under the weather
All alone, wandering around
Belonging to none,
An exiled lover.

Being in love isn't easy
For there are these notions
Born before us, clouding our vision
The dead history recreates walls,
Barriers of the mind
That can't be cracked;
We had to lose
At the end of it all.

Tomorrow the stars will rise again
Light of love will never go in vain. 

Let it heal

The world is breathing,
It is healing.

We are struggling to live
Still fighting.

Conspiracy theories of warfare
Has made love, being loved unfair.

To fight the virus,
We're washing our hands,
Wearing masks;
If the mind could be shielded
And washed as well
We'd have helped us
Faster off this hell.
It seems we ought to
Do some thinking still,
The world is healing,
Let it heal. 

The indomitable

No, I will never ever die
Before I am physically dead,
I will live my lovely life
Until my breath
Is finally withheld.

The state of the global village

We are in the anteroom,
in a castle we knew as world,
playing out perhaps the last act
of a drama; men, women, children
all at once engaged
as the sleepwalking Grouch,
cleaning the dirty hands;
caregivers are failing,
so are the perfumes of Arabia
to wash the scarlet guilt away.

What a spell has fallen upon us,
that we are outwitted
by an invisible,
so-far-invincible virus.

The historian inside
trembles to paint
the grim picture in words,
of how an imperceptible petite germ
failing the intelligence
of the unprepared
disabled, challenged world
that has successfully cracked
into the outer space.

News, tracking the countless
figures falling as flies,
as though keeping the scores
of a horrendous Olympic game,
every continent, losing lives,
liquidating businesses;
putting work to an abysmal
standstill; lockdown, the sole remedy
to this pandemic peril,
confinement, the only prescription
waiting for the underestimated
enemy to perish. Everyone is jobless
except for the relentless, indefatigable,
resilient doctors and nurses.

Realisation that too much greed
is of no use, other than the futile
effort of getting rid of the guilt;
globalisation was merely to
grow and develop, uniting the world
was never the business, a concern
it ignored the decay, the screech
of the tonsured world; deglobalisation
that the world’s facing now
could finally unite humans with humans.

On witnessing the countless procession of hearse,
perhaps the stage is tired of wars;
disunities, differences might wither from within,
soul-searching might very well begin;
a new way of thinking might emerge
old and failed methods, purged;
global citizenry will perhaps concur to win;
world, a waiting room, tired of losing,
now, in the last act, eagerly washing
its hands of all the erstwhile, countless sins.