What will you say to him?

What will you say to him,
Who died without a hym,
Who is dead but telecast live,
On whom flies swarmed from their hives?

You who butcher another being,
With much more regard for a thing,
You who doesn’t even cloak a dagger,
And roam around rinsed of swagger.

Did you feel your blood,cold,
When with pride, the story you told?
Were you still hot with hate,
Many others still to eliminate?

What will you say to him,
To your nephew who recorded the film,
When he grows a bit trim,
Or in your image, will we find him?

A Muslim migrant worker from West Bengal was killed in Rajasthan by a man who made his nephew record the murder while ranting against Islam (here). Both West Bengal and Rajasthan are states in North India.



From stillness to motion,

Silence to sound,

Cries to laughter,

Earth to sky,

Strangeness to acquaintance,

Chills to warmth,

Indifference to difference,

War to peace,

Air to breath,

Routine to passion,

Order to disorder,

There is a road I hope to find someday.

They make a desolation and call it peace

They want to keep us company,
Desperate to free us of our suffering.

They want to be our saviours,
Desperate to be saved.

They loathe our lyrics and songs,
Desperate to respond to stones.

They blindly ignore our pleas,
Desperate to impose their warnings.

They want our identity to be defined,
Desperate for them to forcefully confine.

They say they loathe the war,
Desperate to ‘fight’ for our peace.

They clamp our soul to a desolation,
Desperate to call it peace.

Where do we go when we die? 

Do we rise on a tree gnawing at its tusk?
Or we fall in the ocean floating on the bed? 

Do we blossom on weak stems with the flow of dusk?
Or we wilt from tire of the road ahead? 

Do we silt into bricks in that envious skyscraper?
Or we fade into fog leaving another lost lover? 

Do we fly onto walls, staring at grief?
Or we land into bars to get some relief? 

Do we refresh ourselves and come back?
Or we get removed from the unfortunate pack? 

A Song About Myself 

           – John Keats 


There was a naughty boy,  
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
      He took
      In his knapsack
      A book
      Full of vowels
      And a shirt
      With some towels,
      A slight cap
      For night cap,
      A hair brush,
      Comb ditto,
      New stockings
      For old ones
      Would split O!
      This knapsack
      Tight at’s back
      He rivetted close
   And followed his nose
      To the north,
      To the north,
   And follow’d his nose
      To the north.

There was a naughty boy
   And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
   But scribble poetry-
      He took
      An ink stand
      In his hand
      And a pen
      Big as ten
      In the other,
      And away
      In a pother
      He ran
      To the mountains
      And fountains
      And ghostes
      And postes
      And witches
      And ditches
      And wrote
      In his coat
      When the weather
      Was cool,
      Fear of gout,
      And without
      When the weather
      Was warm-
      Och the charm
      When we choose
   To follow one’s nose
      To the north,
      To the north,
   To follow one’s nose
      To the north!


There was a naughty boy
   And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
   In washing tubs three
      In spite
      Of the might
      Of the maid
      Nor afraid
      Of his Granny-good-
      He often would
      Hurly burly
      Get up early
      And go
      By hook or crook
      To the brook
      And bring home
      Miller’s thumb,
      Not over fat,
      Minnows small
      As the stall
      Of a glove,
      Not above
      The size
      Of a nice
      Little baby’s
      Little fingers-
      O he made
      ‘Twas his trade
   Of fish a pretty kettle
      A kettle-
      A kettle
   Of fish a pretty kettle
      A kettle!


There was a naughty boy,
   And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
   The people for to see-
      There he found
      That the ground
      Was as hard,
      That a yard
      Was as long,
      That a song
      Was as merry,
      That a cherry
      Was as red,
      That lead
      Was as weighty,
      That fourscore
      Was as eighty,
      That a door
      Was as wooden
      As in England-
   So he stood in his shoes
      And he wonder’d,
      He wonder’d,
   He stood in his
      Shoes and he wonder’d.


If you could see the beauty of nature…
Its true beauty –

Beyond the bees and the lilies,
The mangoes and the flamingoes,
The ants and the rants,
The dogs and the thick-think logs…

The common infinte processes hiding in plane sight…
That occur in harmony…oblivious to our senses,
That carry us forward each second, each inch…

You would know what I mean.

via Daily Prompt: Harmony


I look at you, you look at me…
I turn away towards an invisible bee. 

When black, you contrast,
A little too fast,
With the colony white,
While I turn away to an invisible sight 

When blue,
You shine like sapphire,
At the center of a fire,
And I turn away to an invisible hue.

When brown, you intimidate
Like the guard at the gate,
And I turn away like a clueless clown.  

Image Source:×235.jpg

I look at you, you look at me…
I turn away from something I would rather see.

You freeze me, I’m dumbstruck…
You confuse me, I’m out of luck.

I want to adore you,
But unwillingly turn away,
Just know that it’s not true
That I don’t listen to what you say.

You just make me nervous!!