We were such friends; but Life was such

We met after a long time 

in a dream, the dream 

that lasted a night long 

we spoke, and we spoke of things 

that had occurred to us, and that

we just thought had occurred 

she asked, where my whims were gone

I said, gone, and long gone 

with the western wind gone wild 

she asked, where my thrills were gone 

I said, washed, and washed out 

in the ravelling skeins of a ceaseless rain, 

she asked, where my laughter was gone 

I said, drawn, and withdrawn 

into the caves of a crazy understanding

she asked, where my smile was gone 

I then smiled a smile in vain

lo, woken up was I from the dream,

And she was gone, gone without a word

a paleness fading into a stubborn light: 

I'd wanted to ask her all the same

 And then Life keeps changing, so do friends and so do I. . .

It's all the same, we're all the same...yet another.

GULMOHAR

GULMOHAR

In the

falling rains,

a gulmohar blooms

into my moody skies,

bleeding its red grief
across the white layers
of some cloudy retreats
swathing memories of
cerise sun-stains
of all those

days past

In the

rain-swept

blossoms, I see the

splendour of a new

spring, holding promise

for many a skies, across

and beyond the hills

that borders my

tiny world

here...

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year 2019

all things

to step back to see life happening, 

to feel lives living through you - 

this silent communion with the world

there is an overriding peace here, 

a distilled joy and a sense of satisfaction

even as there is nothing you can claim. . .

suddenly, all things 

that remind me of my mortality 

become very dear to me

A Dream, A Prayer

It's never too late to have a dream. Have a dream.

Have a grand dream. A prayer.

And let that dream, the prayer create your future. 

And the future of many, who may not even know you or your dream. 

Or your prayer. . .

Grieve

when the world is grieving

do not complain

you are feeling low

it is meant to be so.

Grieve –

it is the time to grieve

shut the music off and grieve

for our own wrongdoings

for the wrongdoings of our own race

to open the doors of an illusory paradise -

a farcical comedy! 

At home. . .

at home,

this vast silence, 

then the sound of a soft rain, 

an occasional wayward 

wind blowing through the leaves,
into its non-existence,
and then again...
a bird, two or three chirping,
to each other,
or to their own selves
someone talking to someone
out there
about some causality,
a pleasing austerity
that surrounds it all
. . .that's all there is
. . . .that's all there is to it!