Surviving the Odds

At the edge of morning ,
Kept are all voices at rest.
The worthy rises to break the air,
Set things in motion as they used to be .

In throttling fears of drowning low,
Of passing into the world of shadow,
Crept by the illusion of riches and pride,
He stands still, the warrior of good-
With smell of earth , and debt of heart.

Forgiven days of past are endured,
Leaving the scars unhealed within.
Ignored all deeds stand;
Favor is not the nature of Man,
However good or bad.

In light they move,
Seeking the yesteryear’s chance
Of reclaiming the truth of life,
Still wrapped, still dark.

Grace is a mystery,
In devising his master-plan.
All sorrow swept beneath the stars,
For heaven to spark the survival wars.

Unraveling the Soul

Writing is an amazing journey and reading to me a thrilling adventure. Whenever I sit down to write or more appropriately when time forces me to find yet another escape into the realm of words, my mind is bombarded with ideas. What I write is that what I can connect with the most. But it doesn’t end here. I am not even midway through my article when a new idea strikes me. My mind is corrupted by its attractiveness and somehow I manage to get it right so that the continuum is not lost. Sometimes I fail and abruptly end. There are some which are never completed. I wouldn’t say that I didn’t want to, but there are certain things that you are too inexperienced or immature to understand and dwelling longer on that subject yields no result. All that it does to you is draw out your energies and leave you fatigued and weak. One day, maybe one day when that long lost idea doesn’t seem so unknown, maybe then I could give it a meaningful end.

One great dilemma is when you stand at the fork of a road faced with a choice to pen down one of the two conflicting views because deep down you are alien to concept of choosing sides. Because deep down you don’t agree with either. Because you know that there is nothing such as right or wrong and it is just about perspective and time. I do try to give enough space to such views, so that I can present my side of story which is adrift of any ‘sides’.  My success and failure in any such attempt is uncertain to me. But if at the end of the day I am happy and content with the words, if I believe in what I have written, then my work there is done and no kind of criticism can pull me down.

To write is opening a can of worms. Because you are confronted with your deepest secrets and truths and you have no choice but to spell them out loud. When I write that you have no choice I stand by each of these words. Writing is a way to unravel yourself, to get naked and still not be ashamed of it. And if at all you are haunted by the ghost of public perception, then what you do isn’t writing. It is some other form of activity that lacks soul and energy. It lacks the will to continue. It lacks the courage to acknowledge your ideology.  It lacks the honesty to be at terms with your dreams. And hence, it is as good as dead. So when I write, I don’t try to be politically correct or pretentiously right. What I do is what Paulo Coelho has absolutely put it out right-“I write the book that wants to be written. Behind the first sentence is a thread that takes you to the last.”

 

 

 

 

 

The Lost Child

 

The stranded child lay flat on ground,
His smile is in misery, his toes are in doubt.
In nature he finds his mother,  in its sanctity his god.

Numb are the lips,
Torn, dry and cracked.
In utter isolation, his voice is sacked.
His eyes randomly search
people, food and his good home earth.

His tears flow streaming into the land,
Dreams of union,  sandcastles in sand.
His limbs are small but his needs are dire,
He has a little heart, but his emotions sit on pyre.

He looks to the sky too high,                                                                                                                   The tall trees and the black nights closing upon,
He has not lost nor will he lose,
He counts his breath as in time he drowns.

Oh, higher winds of the world!
Take away his word to the world,
Bitten by untimely things, a childhood lost and ruined.

Help must come till hopes are ablaze,
Or nothing may be left that you collect.
The land must be tilled,
The heaven with sun-rays filled,
Before all is dampened by sorrow.