The Outlaw

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Arrogant glory of the outlaw;

His flaked old truck still.

Leaning on it, a straw he chewed upon.

The gun is no use, no bullets anyways.

It’s a different battle to fight.

 

Its no war either, just memories;

And the not to be undone; his life,

He stares back at the innocence of a childhood.

Secure in its mothers lap under its father’s roof.

 

He drops his glance squeezing  away his teardrop.

The child does not, accusing him of something.

Accusing him of knowing too much,

Of demolishing its Gods of flesh.

 

It’s not a war, the gun is no use now.

The outlaw knows there is no fighting one’s childhood.

There can be running away; only so long.

He is tired anyways, accepts to be tried by his childhood.

 

The outlaw for once and at last is confined.

Questioned not with questions but memories.

Revenge, he had sought once for the death of his dreams.

Memory prosecutes and executes him of it’s immortality.Image

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and I AM ALMOST DEAD.

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Standing tall, oblivious to your own shade;

Ages pass by thee, age old feels, pass by thee.

Holding your head still and high, almost proud;

Pride, is that your word? Have you heard of it, Love?

 

Bearing fruits of passion and of patience.

Year after year, those kids they throw pebbles,

Sweet your fruits, bitter your seeds.

Enigma to the oblivion, no, not to me.

 

I, the nomadic, the uprooted, hail thy stupidity.

Land, country, pride, mean none, I know but one;

Words the speechless; feelings the soundless;

Love, sacrifice is my tongue and eyes and I AM ALMOST DEAD.Image

The Border Town

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I carry this jute,

Riding on a rickshaw-

Pulled by this insignificant, laborer and a conquered man with no soul.

He lives in the same country as me, his forefathers too did.

But, he is dark with no education, culture or sense of politics.

The land he ploughed kept shrinking, his spirit knows no wounds.

I sit on this tripod of  a vehicle dragged by his hunger.

There is even a rag to protect me from sunburns, for him there’s none;

All this because I have this paper imprinted with my country’s history,

Which he have none, neither the bill nor the history.

His hunger is his history, politics, democracy and his God.

 

A few armed men search my empty bag twice, a few yards apart.

They ask me who I am? What’s my country and the purpose of my visit?

Me only me, they ask all this, not the laborer- hunger has no country, they know.

Then there comes a bump in the road, it’s supposed to be the definition of territory.

The plantations, the grasses and the mules  all oblivious, oblivious even to this irony.

I reach the store, buy some cereals and pulses and coffee too, its cheaper here.

The jute, it is not. I give them the bills (with the history of my country) to him, he is paid.

I pay with my history for my present.

The lands the same, but my history isn’t much fertile.

All this while the rickshaw- puller watches me emotionless, wiping himself off sweat.

I hop-in and he starts pedaling again. The road-the bump- armed soldiers-plantations- mules-

And I am back home, to my own country, I pay the laborer a 10 cigarettes worth history and he goes away. Image

Lake Blues

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Formless stillness, confined motion; not rest, serenity.

Colored in reflections of  the formless blue. Hung,

halfway between heaven and hell,

white and the black; winged and the horned-

Blues of the colorless,

punctuated by the whispers of the wind.

Messages on the greens of the bystander-

a language sans words, sounds and signs;

scribbled by the reflected yellow threads of above.

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Each ripple, each comma; a wrinkle to the eye.

Immune to time and age, and death too;

estranged feels of yesterdays and yester years.

It’s fluidity, the wetness of its being, carried by each drop-

Infinity of shattered dreams clasped in each tear-drop.

restless eternal motion of piscean beings-

Concealed beneath reflective imitation of station.

A pebble thrown tears through body and soul.

Pebble worn all eternity, scars- there remain none.

I am here-here, I am alive.

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Music and words reverberating,

My hairs stand on its tail dancing,

It’s the early morning cool breeze.

The sky changing colors from grey to blue

The sun has just woken up,

Its eyes still half filled with sleep.

The only un-utopian thing about this morning

Is the missing smell of the spring.

the smell of concrete, it’s substitute.

I am here-here, I am alive.Image

Where was it when your ride ran out of luck?

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Where was it when your ride ran out of luck?

Was it near the Utopia or its spiritual sister Sangrila?

Or had luck suddenly salvaged you of your ignorance?

Was your ignorance heading you to the slump?

What is your word for ignorance, ‘Nirvana’ or ‘Freedom’?

 

How painful is that scar on your face and body?

When does it hurt, by the wind’s rub or when the mirror reflects?

Or is it just the dried crust of the soil you fell upon?

What is this smile, your stubborn reply to reason?

Why did your tear taste salty to tongue but sweet to the soul?

 

Conceive me in your head once, I wish to be born again.

Not to a mother but to your enigmatic thoughts.

I want to wander around with your thoughts and reasons,

Your wishes and anger, your knowledge and ignorance.

want to watch them born, want to grow with them, into them.Image

FRICTION

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Spectral rainbow dreams-

Sprouting carnal desires.

her tears, my words wrestle-

Wishes bland and blind, bind

Blend into a being-

Camouflaged innocence,

Serrated morals- lacerated souls.

 

Stuck in a cog?

Words across your veil,

Blue iris, azure shades-beautiful!

Desirous, delirious even- yet blind.

 

Tempting silks, roughened denims;

Frictional heat, souls afire.

Lives, desire, destiny, words akin;

Ashes to ashes, love or life?

None, singular identity, plural lives.