Time

A frozen clock,
melting,
by the passing second.
Time.

Life is like a cold volcano,
stopping abruptly.


Time,
once took over the volcanoes,
and created histories.

A history called humans.


Time,
a smudge of fresh paint,
on the bland wall.
And,
it later scrubs off by the
wind of limitation.


***

It is a museum,
one that floats somewhere in the infinite void,
of thoughts and rotten,red wounds.

(the very wounds that opens up,
when time stops.)

It's a museum of dolls.

A bewitched doll,
with bloody eyes and blue limbs.
One on squeaking,
bleeds,
and when laid to rest it,
smiles.
And,
then when the doll is stabbed,
blood on the clock.
the hands stopped moving,
second remained
Time,
continues.


***


Time,
is a lover's paradise hung upon eternity,
singing the song of lonely,
attics,
and narrating tales of empty,
letters.

It is also like a,
nuclear weapon.
(over which you have more wars than with it)


****

Time can make you feel like a,
empty beer can;
thrown on a white dull beach,
lined by freshly chopped grey trees;
which swayed to the blue sun and the distant ship,
by the monotonous waves.

Life now becomes the grey.


***

with time the ancient warriors got buried in the mud,
and their arms,
got polished for the next crusade.

with time red roses turn white,
and honey bees throng to the cactus.

as time flows,
the river of melancholy dries up, revealing the dry truth.

with time,
time changes.


***

Time says.
this has to stop here.

time says this has to stop here.

Night

"By night an atheist half believes in God."

-Edward Young

The crawler makes its way,
through the grey road.

The darkest of it's kind,
creates a magic spell on each leaf,
that flutters in the silent wind.

The moon shines,
with an unusual glory.
It's a glory of mistrust between the two worlds.
One that seeks to live and love.
The other that fights to seek an existence.

The calmness of the night,
was stolen by the dark envy.
An envy that robs the,
trees of it's right to live.
And the right to greenness.

Small pieces of the night,
stitch together and weave magic to a pungent perfume.

Floating limbs of evil forces,
grasp the melancholy of the earth,
to liven the damn spirits of
Golgotha.

Nott remains unsuccessful,
in her attempts to bring her night back.
The Wiesel guy,
penned it down what it was like.


It was a night of happier things too.


The rickshaw-puller smoke his lustful pot,
and for once he relaxed,
to the tunes of the Baul that hummed in the record player,
left by some guest the other day.

It is also when people,
discover each other.

The trees communicate in silence.
And talk of welcoming the rains,
and bearing the pains.


The night shelters itself in a vast expanse,
pretending to be some kind of a treacherous beast,
that makes prophecies or wars and crimes.

Night is when the people rest,
and the dreams work to make him,
alive next morning.
Night is when man is what he becomes the next morning.


The sun paints the canvas,
and plays with the colours a little later.
It weeps and departs and promises,
a revengeful return.

(Nott is the Norse Goddess of Night,
Elles Wiesel is an author who wrote a book named "Night",talking about the Nazi treachery)

Station Story

The wind,
the stale wind,
blew with an unusual temptation.
The bitter taste of rekindled happiness was gushing by.

The sound of the engine,
(the very engine that killed a farmer yesterday)
split the uncommon silence;
in two halves.


The desolate paddy grounds,
danced to the beast's song.
The water-channels trembled with,
the chill of the sound.
And also of the evil night.

A night that bore women's cries,
and the men's laughter.
The one that,
hides the stars in it's thick blanket.

The empty moonlight,
mixes with the,
billowing smoke of the engine.
And creates a supernatural being.
Fear.

__


The small,
nearly negligible railway station,
shook to the beats of the chuffing engine.

The rusted plates,
gallantly read the name of the small place.

On the lone concrete slab,
sat a boy.

The sight of the monster,
was greeted by a brilliant gleam
in his innocent eyes.

__

The moor,
the dark moor,
which was on the other side of the station,
gently hummed.

The rail lines vibrated ,
at the eerieness.

The glow-worms flew about,
in the infinite darkness,
pretending to be messengers of God to show light during perennial darkness.

Silent echoes of the,
Great War rode in the confused air.

The village ,
across the dry paddy fields,
slumbers on the modest,
cold clay floor.

The houses are apparently,
prominently marked.
Lamps light on the window sill.

One stood dark,
with a weeping lady inside.

__

The boy in the station,
sat in the shimmering cold,
acknowledging the arrival of the loud train.

It was that time of the year again.
For the jawans at the front it was,
Homecoming.

Another false hope.

The gentle giant roared by,
infusing life in the otherwise dead station.
__

The boy trudged home,
crossing the narrow brook,
which carried the black water from the village.

The sun was playing hide and seek with,
the distant mountains.

Hope and Despair,
tossed the small family in it's gruesome palms.

The tale continues every full moon night.

__

The cold flame,
lights up the dormant hope each night like this,
The hot wind created,
in a jiffy,
sucks the flame,
into the ifinite silence.

And the boy,
The boy trudged home,
crossing the narrow brook,
which carried the black water from the village.

Sunken

First Chapter

On the mountain peak,
the place of the unkown birds and the hot snow.
There lies a filthy soul.
A lost soul.
A lonely one.

Near the banks of the river,
the one they called holy and yet let everything down,
sits quitely a refused soul.
A lonely soul.
It's then when he calls it:
"My River"

The waves wahsed away the castles.
His dreams were "Sand Dreams".


Second Chapter


For days he waited for a shoulder,
a shoulder to support his burnt head.
The head which had eyes,
that saw the confusions galore.
The head that had ears,
which heard the foul men speak.
The head,
that symbolized loneliness.

Doors remained shut,
and windows sealed.
There wasn't an answer to ,
the solemn pleas.


Third Chapter


Brainwashed,
the psychedelic mind works like a pendulum;
Swerves into the deep interiors
and comes out again.
He is a horologist's dream.

His thoughts enter his shallow heart,
to bounce back again.
It's a devil's dream.


Final Chapter


He must find a friend,
a soul to relax with.

The rocking chair relaxes in the outdoor sun.

He finds a shadow that bleeds,
the one that has been roaming for a companion too.

He finds himself.

The Gain of Pain

When the soul burns,
tears are acids that,
flames the effigies of love.
And when you know the only medicine is,
Death.

It's a game of dance on Mars' fires.
It'sa rhapsody of lateral thought.

***
The ancient eagle flew from miles away,
suffered bruises in the brutal rainforests,
burns over the magical sand,
of the hot desert.
And was numbed in the evil Siberian cold.

The bird has an unquenched throat,
longing for the polluted rain.

***

The distant howling,
echoes in the hollow interiors of the black fores,
that hit hard in it's lost senses.


The dead vulture,
perches atop the dead,broken tree,
feasting in the alive langur,
in some land,
a morbid land.

The voices that spoke tyranny,
continue to yell through echoes.


***

The fingers that swayed the cradle,
now picks up the broken cradle,
and cries at the broken baby.

The horrific lullaby that was once sung,
now rekindles a new desire.
To sleep again.

The illuminated eyes,
speak of a dark inside.

Led Zeppelin is sung,so is Maiden.

It's an experience,
It's a teacher.
Pain is what makes a person at times.

***

Pain is when the infant cries,
whilst the mother earns money and pleasure.

Pain is also when the baby dies.

Pain is your heat,
when it bleeds.
Pain is more when it is stiched.

Pain was also when Chaplin wore Hitler's moustache.
Pain is when Holocaust haunts

Pain is when the reddest of blood is spilled by,
the scarlet sarcasm.

Pain is when you read these lines.

***

The lullaby was the last one,
he ever heard.

The greatest pain.

(The name of those two metal heads is a reference to Led Zep's Babe I'm Gonna Leave You and Maiden's Dance of Death)

The Nomad Woman

With a subtle difference in thought,
she travels with time,
flies with the moon;
and floats with the dragons.

She's a woman of forgotten centuries,
a woman of holy wars,
and violet visions.
A girl of gentle curiosity.

Her hair flutters in the air,
like the golden histories that,
tell a tale of silver mysteries,
of mystical nymph and hollow sand dunes.

She is built by lengthy tunes of the sitar,
and the humble strike of the church bell.
She is surrounded by metallic trees,
and void walls.

It's like the honey dew on the dead corpse.
The killer smile on the vivacious lips,
and the red senses that murder theories.
It's about abstract pragmatism.

She's a modern day witch.
She works with cracked bulbs and molten ash.
Her thoughts are nude and volatile.
Her talks are of old streets and new wine.

She's of the third kind.
The one that slices temptations of the blue mind.
It's also about the one that rule the planets,
the other planets.

She races against the old horses,
which saw many crusades on the desert.
These were summer wars,
fought in the evil winter.

These are not stories or rumours.
These are women who ruled the smoked world.
They rode men with great fantasies.
These were men of the summer land.

She had breasts that smelled of light poison.
She had the vigour that made the adams die,
who later rose under the sand,the hollow sand;
and drank the water that floated.

The wind that blew in the heavy air;
carried with itslef a spirit of envy.
The women,the men and them.
It's the wind of civilization.

She ain't any Cleopatra,
niether the slain Joan of Arc,
or the horrible witches of Shakespeare.
She is unique.

Alcohol percolates her senses,
and the drink of glory,
entwines herself with what the Romans;
called Breast in heaven.

She also visits abandoned forts and grey forests,
that once bowed to the horrible fire.
She is a girl,she is a woman.
She is you.

The Nightwatchman

Back in the other land,
(the land of Ganjas and the gods)
there is a mountain where the men graze.
There is a river where the blood melts and the snow flows.

There's also a small hut,
where the old man puffs,
where the women relentlessly cry,
where the goats bleed.

In the younger times,
the boy roamed about during the sun's reign.
Now,
parades the narrow alleys,
when there stars rule with the
monotonous tune.

***

of stick,the pointed cap and the whistle,
and the ironical torch.

***

The eerie company of the night,
changes its colours.
It's sweaty,wet sometimes and is comfortably chilly.
The stars grin with a white shine.

The cracks at the post,
runs after the dogs.
He doesn't realize,
his heart burns.

***

The two circles of smoke,
smothers in the blue air,
and unites somewhere
in the vast blue-white unity.

He picks up the half done bidis,
our old man prepares his own puff.

They offered loads for his sister,
but he did not give up smile,
for red tears.

***
The silvery wrap of the moon,
creates a magnificent illusion.
The stick becomes a bewitched wand.
A wand that kills the night.
The whistle forms an eerie call,
the call of the wild.
The rotten call.

The pariahs turn into,
howling and bleeding wolves.
The houses , the angry buildings,
convert to monsters of today.

The blunt faced man,
becomes a royal guard.

There are several kings that repose.

***

In the confused land,
tears wipe tears.
Cannabis consoles the heart.

Something was cheaper than water.

The other boy is growing up,
a shameful town is gearing up.

It's a tale of grit and self-proclaimed,
glory.

***


The petty thief is never caught,
eludes each try.

He was caught on one black day.
New moon night.
The night watchman wasn't there on duty.

The next night saw another boy,
magician.
From the same land.

The land of untold mysteries,
land of told complexities.
where hell and heaven is the same place,
where the men are not the citizens.