in time and space

if peace is restored
with power, in time,
it causes another war

if it were to be
brought about with
love and grace
we wouldn't know
what'd happen cause
we'd never visited
that space

A bunch of ghosts

T.S. Eliot has suddenly
come back in 2022,
he thought he'd add 
a line or two when he 
re-read the burial
of the dead.

There comes Samuel Beckett
who sees Didi and Gogo
still waiting as they were, long
ago, under the patient
tree, he steals the line from
the Bard pours it into their
throat, they seem to chant it
like a melody, 'under the
greenwood tree, who loves
to lie with me'.

Slowly come Kalidasa and
Tagore, reliving the wars
we fought in the yore;
all litterateurs of the world
come to the dais one by one
witness the wars where
everything is lost, nothing
won, everyone dismayed with
the disastrously designed mayhem.

They pleaded and pleaded
with all stalwarts and leaders
who looked at each other
with utter voodoo, and said
in unison, 'it wasn't me, it was
you'.

All the dead writers of the world
when they didn't hear a word
from the soi-disant shepherds,
yelled, 'don't waste your own
land' to the leader and their
herds: the authors tried to
convince them to yield, to
kill the wars, but infatuated
with warfare, they
were saying cheers and
raising a toast, the men
of letters tried hard to talk,
but in vain, all in vain; those
insane power seekers
impervious to the appeal;
engaged to make a supercilious
deal, there wasn't any response from
the unconscious hosts until the
wordsmiths were indoctrinated
they were talking to a bunch of
unearthly ghosts.

আমরণ

আমার শব-টা যবে উঠবে চিতায়
বল হরি বোলের সহায়
আমার যত আমি-রা সব
বল দেখি থাকবে কোথায়?

যখন আমায় নিয়ে যাবে
খই ছিটিয়ে পথে পথে
কাশি মিত্র নয় সিরিডি-তে
নিমতলা বা  কেওড়া তলায়
চা সিগরেট খেতে খেতে
ভাববে কখন পুড়িয়ে দেহ
ভাসিয়ে দিয়ে অস্হি ও ছাই
ফিরবে তোমরা ঘরে সবাই।

যারা যারা ঘর-এ গেলে
একটু খানি সময় পেলে
ভেবে দেখ কেউ কি ফাঁকি
দিতে পারবে চিতায় ওঠায়
এও কি আবার হয় গো নাকি!

মনপ্রাণ-টা থাকত যদি
আমারই ওই অসাড় দেহে
কি ভাবতাম বল দেখি
শ্মশান যাত্রী সঙ্গী সাথী ?

মরার পরে হরি বোল
শুধুই যেন কোলাহল
গাইতাম যদি হরি বোল
জীবন থাকতে আমি
বুঝতে পারতাম হরিবোল-ই
সবার থেকে দামি। 

ঈর্ষা, ঝগড়া রাগ দুঃখ
অহংকার-এর বিষে
অর্ধমৃত ছিলাম আমি
প্রতিটি নিঃশাসে।

বেঁচে থাকো তোমরা সবাই
হরিবোল-এর বলে
বাঁচার মত করে বাঁচো
সবাই হেসে খেলে। 

Double trouble

words, actions
archenemies,
pristine water
boiling oil,
the world willy-nilly
a hot potato

Life and death

The countries may be yours,
the soil belongs to us.

The boundaries may be yours,
the earth belongs to us.

The struggle may be yours,
the rubble belongs to us.

The soldiers may be yours,
but the floods of blood,
the heartwrenching tears
that inundate the drowning world, belongs only to us.

You may speak of hatred.
Wars, weapons, guns, 
maybe your wealth;
we speak of peace, love,
we speak of life,
not of death.

The drama

Nobody, like you.
Nobody likes you.

let sanity prevail

let sanity prevail

above everything else,

wars win wide awake,

fake words end in weapons, arms

gibberish peace in perpetual slumber, fails

let sanity prevail

let sanity prevail 

the unknown

nobody knows the secret, 

nobody knows the mystery, 

hankering desperately

for power, and respect, 

with weapons, and words, 

garbage all over the world, 

a dead end

closing all trajectory

the spiritual and the material 

spaces, the learned ignorant

schools, fighting like rascals

and fools, debris of insipid

ideas filling the sultry air

with more of dirt, bringing in

violence, intolerance, 

breeding filthy hatred, 

its scarlet results

re-read in history

everybody poses to know the secret, 

everybody seems to know the mystery... 

end to end

  

the darkness covering
debris of darknesses,
a jeopardizing journey where
destruction is the destiny;

despite inventions, discoveries,
changing versions of technologies,
notwithstanding volumes
of novels and stories
pouring from the fertile spirit;
the crippled mind is lagging far
behind, as a homicidal habit;

blind, it cannot see the light,
it refuses to see the end,
the world in peril, as a trend
it’s taking notes with tools like
pens, papers, and pencils
forming and deforming words;
the gap between intentions
and actions causing multiple
earthquakes, volcanoes, wars,
forests on fire tonsured;

we seem to be in love with
enlightenment but invariably
choose the false friend,
the most trusted darkness
in full cognizance

the sun, the moon, and
the other stars, unable
to save the disintegrating
planet; we’re all united
to molest the matchless nest
the shelter we didn’t discover,
it was a gifted toy
we’re eager to destroy

The global migraine

the nation's strength

is not in its arms, 

it's in the way it grows

crops in the farms;

it's the food the matters, 

not the food-snatching wars;

throughout the world, 

albeit technologies tried

the farmers commit

suicide, one wonders why

the tv channels across

europe, the americas,

australia allure the

unwilling ladies to

espouse the farmers;

in the punjab of india, 

where wheat is in 

abundance, over 9000 

farmers in 18 years

abandoned their lives; 

one ponders

if the money is 

in safe hands, or if it's

going for a toss;

consumers though 

are willing to pay more

in France's 'Who's the Boss'. 

Note: 'Who's the Boss' is a name of a milk product in France where consumers were asked to pay more so the proceeds reach the farmers. More than 13 million consumers supported the movement.