The Speeches are no more remained as speech,
The Theory of Evolution by Darwin or
The Theory of Gravitation by Newton are not just
The Theory of the time,
They are now become screams,
A slip of tongue.
My friendship is with my shadow,
From the dawn to midnight hollow,
Thereafter, a wrestling between
He is above me and
Under his enthralling grip,
I used to have been.
There is an open book
In a prize distribution ceremony,
A naked page of a half-written diary,
An uncovered fountain pen,
A clap in between and a screech,
And, and—popcorn and chips.
The first prize goes to Gandhi’s smile
The second prize goes to Gandhi’ stick,
The third prize goes to Nathu’s bullet,
And that is the trick.
There is an obeisance of three evenings of the third prize winner
In a meeting of Bishops;
He is the Lord Brahma
He is the Lord Bishnu
He is the lord Maheswar.
In the end:
I am now on a wreckage
I am now attentive
Keeping my hand on yellows of the month of Aghon;
With the whimper of heart
Caused by the defeat in my Shadow’s fight,
And with the mode of rhymes of eyes
In the broken waist nights.
A man came into a ramshackle cottage.
He was like a darkness
A hushed night was ascribed on his face
There was red bag hanging from his shoulder
The man offered me my identity card
Which he pulled out from the bag
He said weeping
Hiding his face in the dense forest,—
‘The weeping is also an art’
An art behind the art.
The Fire Flower
There will be a day
When the Modar flowers burn the sky
And then, the people
With sickles and hummers
A destiny in the course.
These people know how to rebuild
On the wreckage of the old
These people also know
How to demolish a chateau
It is just sequence of time
And one day, that will heppen
Modar flower would bloom
The ribcage of the burgess
Would turn into ashes.