Pack Light, Darling

​Pack light, darling.

The deep green of the leaves,

And the deep darkness they hold,

The crispness of the sunlight

(Without which it’s like limp dog-hairs),

The black bitterness of coffee,

The haunting of old Bollywood songs,

The spirit of the blood wine,

The vitality of lethal cigarette puffs,

The intensity of wasted moments,

The colors of my eyes,

The unbearable softness of my touch,

The calm of the snarling world –

Why pack all these things with you,

Whenever you go away from me?

Aren’t you worried that the airline will charge you extra,

The careful woman that you are?

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True Love

Well darling,

The chocolate has melted

Into ugly little smears,

The card from the little sidewalk shack

Has been mistakenly given to the trashman,

The lovely morn of our love

Has been covered with black curtains,

And the night in his unrelenting weight

Has descended upon us.

My hands have started to find,

The alloy in your golden skin,

And the surprising gentleness of my touch

(As you say), has become impatient like knife,

We’re ready to scratch each other, ever deeper

With the talons on our tongues,

Ready to admire the stunning artwork,

Of souls wounded for ever.

It’s inevitable, we can’t stop ourselves,

Inevitable as tissues that blend only to repulse,

Let’s see if at the end we can still kneel

Together at the dreadful altar of love.

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Ashes Don’t Burn

You know, I see

Hope floating like leaves on the breeze;

Smiles glinting like defiant stars,

In the unforgiving glare of the Sun;

The fat man who wants to swallow the world,

The little man who wants to grind it to dust,

The angel with wings that shred your heart,

The unshaven, ugly man with a toy in his coat.

And I see your desire spread like the sky,

Inviting me to spread my wings and fly,

To drift like the empty grey clouds,

Till your heart arches into a beautiful rainbow.

But darling, trees they grow big,

And their leaves hide a deep, dark mystery,

But they die, and their branches are burned,

And fire doesn’t ever grow on the ashes.

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Sweet Independence Day

Sweet Independence Day,

Why do you let the old wrinkled men

And young men with old shrivelled souls,

Adorn you with grim frowns?

Let them order the children stand

Rigid with chained limbs and frozen salutes,

Instead of dancing with joy

To the tinkling music of laughter?

Why let angry men with puffed up chests

And empty hearts, roar your triumph,

And not let thin poets with thrilling pens,

Whisper lovely sonnets to your sublime beauty?

Why let pompous heavy words

Pin down your airy, soaring wings,

And let soulless, proud tyrants,

Chain you to poles and exult in your fluttering?

Why let them command the plebeians

To dry their throats and parch their souls,

Rather than light up the clouds

With sparks of boisterous joy?

Isn’t that why three young men strung themselves

On the gallows – To uncage your flight,

For you to shed the light of joy and laughter

To the bright-eyed multitude below?

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Piece Of Sky

There’s no point in dreaming

Rains will wash away the tears,

For baby, I’ve lost

The piece of my sky 


There’s no point in spreading

Your wings to help me fly

For baby, I’ve lost

The piece of my sky


There’s no point in culling

Flowers, shrivelled without a sun,

For baby, I’ve lost

The piece of my sky


There’s no point in painting

The walls of a roofless house,

For baby, I’ve lost

The piece of my sky


There’s no point in carrying

These stars in your eyes,

For baby, I’ve lost

The piece of my sky 

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The Real Cost 

That which lets you pursue your goals,

To fuck the planet in all its holes;

To plant your dreams of power and money

In gardens beyond, for borders seem so funny;

To kill for the right to save some beasts

And the privilege to cook others for feasts;

To sloganeer for the right to curse and sneer

At the very thing which takes away your fear –
The shattered hopes of a tearless father,

The trampled breast of a tearful mother,

The desert heart of a soul-robbed wife,

The kids who need to build a cheerless life,

The frozen, splintered youthful body of martyrdom,

Are the prices that are paid, for that, your freedom

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The Child’s Dream

He had a voting card,

Which entitled him to press a button,

And pretend to decide the nation’s fate.


He had a driving license too.

The state recognized his right,

To drive to anywhere or nowhere.


They let him crush his time

Into the seat of his office chair,

And even paid him for it.


He played responsibility at home,

Joining the blocks of his wife’s happiness,

And making deposits on his children’s future.


No doubt he was an adult;

But the brambles from the seeds of a child’s dream,

Kept growing in his chest, and choked his soul.

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Posted in poem

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