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.

World!

We have so far
molested the world
as a brothel;
now, let us treasure
it as an ashram.

The show goes on

I want to be happy.
I focus on things, or on others,
Friends, strangers;
It entices me more,
Becomes my addiction,
My destiny.
Instead of being happy,
I become sad.

I exercise my freedom,
I feel cherished in
The so-called like-minded company,
In passionate love that leads into
Humdrum tolerance
Or in acquisitions, opulence
Blinded by material success
Perpetually scared to be with me,
I constantly yearn for togetherness.

My own friendship I underestimate
Seduced by others, submerged in things
I am subjugated,
I crave for them as my savior,
It kills me from inside, it devours;
The more I get, the more I want
The more I compare, the more I hate;
This germ of a game is forever reborn,
The curtain never falls, the show goes on. 

Lying for nothing

Look at the sky
Lying for nothing
Spinning the mind around.

Looking up is an intemperance
An indulgent impertinence;
The neglected, ignored ground
Lying for nothing.

The curtain-raiser

When the curtain falls
Actors are delivered
From their roles,
From a pack of lies;
They become free
From the cage,
But only temporarily;
For when the stage reopens
Before the audience
For the next performance,
The players become bound
Within their profound scripts,
Dialogues, actions of yesterday
Repeat in time and space.
Only a momentary wonderment
'Ah! If it were to change,
It has to', but in the end
Nothing is above entertainment.