SIGNS OF SCRIPTURE

When the Torah, Bible, and Qur’an are read,
But the interpretation distorted,
When bearing children is despised,
And human life is aborted,

When following Scripture will be considered a shame,
When the Lord's name will not be cried out;
Not even in vain,
When honesty will have no recognition,
And the dishonest will go up in fame,

When man-made steeds will be fetched,
And people will journey as never before,
The time taken less, the distances stretched,
When winter will be hot and the summer cold,


When speakers will lie openly;
Their spoken lies will prevail,
The guilty will walk free,
And the innocent will rot in jail,

When man will ignore the major issues,
And the fights will be fought over things petty,
When the inner beauty will be seen as ugly,
And the gleaming, painted face as pretty,

When mothers will find children a burden,
And those barren will be in bliss,
When humanity will be at its lowest,
And the Creator won't be missed,

When oppression, jealousy, and greed,
Will be the flag bearers of humanity,
When children disobey their parents,
Their speech full of profanity,

When people will walk proudly,
And character will have lost its name,
Whimsically engaged in deplorable acts,
Their conscience dead, along with shame,

When parent's are not respected,
And offsprings, the cause for grief,
Where children stray as they wish,
And immorality is free or cheap,

When families are considered a burden,
And strangers are taken as friends,
When we go off the straight path,
And life will continue in bends,

When places of worship will be grand,
But our faith itself will be small,
Where a noble soul will shiver in the rain,
And the evil will shelter in a hall,

When wine will flow for one and all,
On the streets will people stumble,
Down the steps of vice,
The human race will tumble,

O,God ,I know that I am human,
But save me from my humanity,
When the day of reckoning comes,
Keep me pure in submission;
Without a shred of vanity,

OF SONGS AND SIRENS

For all the mountains that you may climb,
Or the richest fare on which you dine,
Don't forget the end of the road,
Where ,awaits for you, the steep decline,

Living  in a world of fantasy,
We see with our eyes what appears to be,
Life has sirens that lead you astray,
Mesmerized by them,many cannot see,

Countless ships that sailed for the cove,
Many a sailor that looked for the docks,
Tempted by the melodious voices,
Sailed their ship onto the rocks,

Such is the power of temptation,
An enemy of the power to resist,
Countless souls were lured to their doom,
Only a few were able to desist,

Find in your heart a sweeter song,
Lest you are lead astray,
Stop for a moment and listen,
And let your Orpheus play.


F'r all the mountains yond thee may climb,
Or the richest fare on which thee dine,
F'rget not the endeth of the road,
Wh're ,awaits f'r thee, the steep decline,

Living  in a w'rld of figure,
We seeth with our eyes what appears to beest,
Life hast sirens yond leadeth thee astray,
Mesm'riz'd by those folk,many cannot seeth,

Countless ships yond did sail f'r the cove,
Many a saileth'r yond did look f'r the docks,
Did tempt by the melodious voices,
Did sail their ship onto the rocks,

Such is the pow'r of temptation,
The foe of the pow'r to intermit,
Countless souls w're lur'd to their doom,
Only a few w're able to desist,

Findeth in thy heart a sweet'r song,
Lest thou art leadeth astray,
Stand ho f'r a moment and hark,
And alloweth thy Orpheus playeth

AN AGE OLD R-EVOLUTION

Evolution is still selected,
Millions of years of existence,
Reasonable to make good changes,
But humans have still defected,

Many scientists have tried to explain,
How humans came from the ape,
How the features of mankind,
Resemble the primate's shape,


A fact that many scientists have neglected,
“Monkeys,apes and hominids,”they claim,
O fools,claiming to follow science,
Their chromosome number is not the same,


Humans have twenty three pairs,apes twenty four,
Yes,you may conclude in your delusion;
It's not something we haven't heard before,
That two ancestral chromosomes had a fusion,


How conveniently you have connected,
The dots in Miller's clouded mind,
The self serving theory that you selected,
Yesterday,gone;today you cannot find,


Ken Miller,a biologist at Brown,
While Miller's calculations cannot be beat,
These fluid deductions do vary,
So the last five years have rendered it obsolete,


If there's one thing,without doubt,
With all his efforts in research,
Evolution is not about science;
It is just fun to write about,


Time after time,century after century,
Mankind had the opportunity to improve,
Human behaviour,with divine guidance,
Had given ample evidence to prove,


The fact that mankind requires,to exist,
A different kind of force from an Intelligent Design,
So that people get a sense of wrong and right,
The power to have an ability to desist,


The primal instincts remain the same,
A shadow that we still follow,
Should have been the other way around,
Our very existence has become hollow,


Still,if you believe that the fusion did happen,
That mankind came from the apes,
Then allow me to fuse,hypothetically,
The chromosomes of apples and grapes,


Theoretically,atoms in divided form,
Can be changed into anything,
Base metal into gold,
Or a tomato into mold,


So here's a challenge for you,
Use your knowledge or cast a spell,
Disprove what I believe in with all my heart,
Just create for me a simple cell.

OF PLATO's PLATE

Three hundred and eighty years Before Common Era,

Someone tried to explain justice,order and character,

In regards to a city-state,an individual,or the public,

It was not just a book that he wrote;it was an epic,

Written by a student of Socrates,and the teacher of Aristotle;

Plato changed the known world when he wrote “The Republic”

The aforementioned book was perfect,

Perfect for his idealized version of a just society,

With just individuals having morals and ethics,

And not the modern day scoundrels ,in variety,

So what right do we have to call it democracy,?

Fools electing scoundrels to govern the state,

The public oppressed through a clandestine policy,

Corruption,in disguise,is served on a plate,

This is certainly not a republic as it should be,

Where moral depravity walks with pride,

Where honesty is locked in Utopia,

And crouched with fear is the conscience,astride.

OF SLIPPING THOUGHTS

Pondering;thoughts slip into oblivion,

Optimism for the beacon of hope,

Sheltered by imagined pavilions,

The unconscious subduing it more,

Pacing,nay;my mind is racing,

Much like a thoroughbred horse,

A Kodak moment at each gallop,

On the endless imaginary shore,

Perfecting my imagination;

Every little detail that I keep,

At every thing that I gaze upon,

With fascination galore,

A phosphorescent green glow,

I then begin to imagine,

In the hermit crab's wake,

I can't help but wonder ,

If fantasies were real,

Would they hold the sa
 me meaning,?

Or would that thought be an error,?

And getting what we imagined,a blunder,

Oh ,God,the thoughts in my head,

In many directions,galloping blind,

The meaning of an endless shore,

A ray of hope in a pitch dark mind,

For which you don't see an end,

Just happiness and sorrow with change,

Trapped into the abysmal deep,

 After my thoughts twist and bend,

And get stuck in the nooks and crannies,

Fluttering in the intellectual draft,

Eagerly trying to break loose,

Trying to jump the walls,

Escaping only what I choose,

Intoxicated ;my imagined steed,

Out comes the awaited rendition,

With an ever increasing need ,

No stable rhythm or rhyme scheme;

My composition seems set to distract,
t,

So,when afraid of being misunderstood,

I think of Picasso's abstract,

Personal,were his reflections,

True to his art,he painted,

Some people actually liked it,

Most,though,probably fainted,

His fame increased from the grave,

Today,his paintings are sought,

Contrary to early predictions,

His bizarre depictions are craved,

The essence of my writing is honesty,
 I write what I feel when I feel it is right,
 And,I am open to the harshest criticism,
 But do treat a poet's work with respect;
It's between Him and his mysticism,

Aye

With some of the biggest shoes to fill,
It's not about intellectual art,
It's about portraying as a melody,
The spontaneous emotions of your heart,

A giant ink pot on my shoulders,
The Great Argus's feather ,my quill,
No matter how hard I try,
I am going to trip a little;
There's bound to be a spill,

The giants in poetry have made their errors,
They have had their share of sorrow,
Their moments of isolated rumination,
And,of course,their horrible night terrors,

I'm still learning as I write,
And I'm open to my share,
My poetry may not be the best,
But,come what may,
I feel it's here to stay.

AN ODE TO AN ENDLESS SPRING

Cometh hither,you bewitching thing,
I has't wait'd long;not anymore,
The winter hath spent on a prayer and a half wing,
I just miss thee m're than before,
Vaward of nature's orchestra,
The starter of nature's sweetest sounds,
The skipper of the beats of mine own heart,
The reason f'r the artist to draw,
The joy with which mine own heart abounds,
Stayeth f'r ever;don't ev'r depart,

Oh ,how much better this life couldst beest,
If 't be true,in all the seasons,
The spring we couldst see,

Still blossoming gardens of flowers,
The melted snow from the high mountains,

In brooks and streams,the effervescent flow,
The shepherds tending their flocks of sheep,
The rosy cheek'd children with faces aglow,
The goatherds churning the butter to keep,
The toast'd bread,butter,and cream,

Sounds surreal;hard to believeth,
Only true if 't be true in a dream,
The endless laughter and joyful screams,
Truly a blessing from the heavens above,

Leaving the bitter winter behind,
This is the season we all shouldst beest,
Truly ,a bewitching sight to see,

OF STOOLS AND PIGEONS

You escaped up into the blue,

Created chaos between nations,

Double crosser,who are you?,

A spy or a stool pigeon?

Snipers are trying to hunt you down,

Flying surreptitiously is dangerous,

Get down,you feathered clown;

Don't be a fool,pigeon,

Loyalty for your need,?

For what prize did you see this through?

A cozy hole and some bird seed?,

Stealing secrets is not so cool ,pigeon,

The heavy burden of messages,,

Which could be the cause for wars,

Start acting like a bird;

You are not a mule ,pigeon.

Someone could get confused,

And mistake another bird for you,

I pity that bird's fate;

Don't be so cruel,pigeon,

Don't try to cross again,

Infiltrators are hunted,

There are no exceptions;

That's the rule,pigeon,

And if the aforementioned does not happen,

Your life still isn't safe,

My sermon was useless;

I should leave you to your fate,

Best of luck,now,

With the falcon and the cat;

Hold on to your stools,pigeon,

A DIFFERENT DELUSION

F'rgive us,Providence ,
F'r we has't mis'rably did fail;
We art not human anym're,
Failing to seeth things as those beest,
We art not humane as bef're,

We art nay longer civilized,
And art nay longer refined,
We art animals with a human visage;
Our “humanity” redefined,

The evil cloak of delusion,
A parasite in our minds,
We tend to discriminate 'gainst oth'rs,
Who is't art not “our kind”,

We bethink yond we knoweth who is't we art,,
And,in our twist'd logic,
We beginneth to bethink,that ,because we bethink,
We very much might not but beest,
But yond still doesn't answ'r the questioneth,
“Who very much art we?”

Alloweth's ponder humanity,
And at which hour thy fellow human is not an equal,
Inhumanity cometh again;
“The falleth of civilization”-a sequel,

Has't we f'rgotten the ancient lore?,
The reason f'r our survival,
Then wherefore doth we still act inhuman?,
The Dark Ages' revival,

Our societies has't did fail,
But not because of invad'rs,
Responsible art those people;
Our own rogue crusad'rs,

A most wondrous civilization shall not falleth,
To an oppress'r from without,
Unless t is first did destroy,
By an oppress'r from within.

ZOON,THE ECLIPSED MOON

A unique st'ry of loveth,

And a painful betrayal,

Mine own poem may giveth t justice,

Through mine own humble p'rtrayal,

The ripples in mine own restless mind,

Remindeth me of a timeth,

F'r the young,a myst'ry,

F'r the rest,it's hist'ry,

The mountains in the h'rizon,

Peeking through the clouds,

The protecteth'rs of the vale,

Majestic,beautiful,and tall,

Protective,in the fullest senseth,

F'r,whenev'r the Moguls did attack,

The mountains stoodeth firm,

The ancient f'rbidding walls;

The barri'rs in Kashmir's defence,

A people yond thy soldi'rs couldst not defeat

With all the battles yond w're combated,

Then,finally conqu'r'd by deceit,

O ,our lasteth emp'r'r,I salute thee,

Coequal m're,our queen,

Still resounding from peak to peak,

Is h'r s'rrow yond we haven't seen,

But hath heard in ev'ry couplet, composed,

The feelings of h'r broken heart,

Until t gaveth up and did fail,

Aft'r thee w're deceived,

By Akbar,who hadst thee jailed,

Akbar,the most wondrous apostate,

Und'r the pretext of a truce,

That gent did invite thee to his state,

And ,instead of making peace,

Thy imprisonment,he decreed,

Neith'r gentle 'r just,

This wast the charact'r of Akbar,

And this wast his cre'd,

A teen,still rememb'r'd by heart,

And hath passed on to the gen'ration next,

Or pres'rv'd on pap'r ,centuries fusty,

The sweet songs from bef're,

Nay,my queen,those moments shall nev'r returneth,

Thy soul shall still pineth,

And the king,restless,in his grave,

A life with thee,snatch'd hence,

Thy loveth,he shall at each moment crave,

Enchanting,kind,and quite quaint,

Thee wast fondly hath called the moon,

Kashmiris shall nev'r f'rget thee,

Qur belov'd queen,Habba Khatoon,

Neith'r shall we f'rget the treach'ry,

Of the Mogul,titl'd "Great",

This shall nev'r beest f'rgotten,

Hist'ry shall carryeth the weight.

TO SEETH 'R NOT TO SEETH

I needeth not mention thy nameth,

Lest I receiveth a bitt'r gust;

Mine own w'rds being mine own food f'r bethought;

Mine own meal wonneth't gust the same,

Who is't in the nameth of humanity art thee?

From wh're doth thee receiveth thy did imply grace?

As far as thy actions art conc'rned,

I doubteth yond many wanteth ,thy visage,to seeth,

I supposeth yond is a blessing f'r thee,

To safely encave behind the scene,

While less'r m'rtals;at least in thy view,

Art subject'd to all yond's obscene,

Thee fool'd the people once,

Then thee fool'd those folk again,

Thee tooketh lib'rties with their free shall,

And gaveth those folk mis'ry and teen,

Suddenly,promptly,subsequently,and lat'r,

The masses shall unfold thy kind,

Thee bloodthirsty,inhuman,alligat'r,

W'rship'r of the travelling lamp,

Oh,cold blood'd reptile,

Shedding thy cousin's drops of “sorrow”,

At the endeth of the day,

F'r thy existence,no one cares,

Not the present day,not tom'rrow,

Thee breedeth'r of s'rrow.

But,then,all beasts has't some toucheth of pity,

And thee seemeth to has't none,

Thou art nay beast,I concludeth;my 'rr'r,

What an epiphany!;and I am done.

THE BLOODY RED HERRINGS

Bent,broken,and twisted,

T'is the cultural bowl,the vessel;

Very hard to express the feeling,

The tempest in the sea of discontent,

A wave of panic from bow to stern,

Unable to cope; the people reeling,

Scattered about the deck,the sailors,

Amidst the cracking spars,

Thinking confined in a cell,

Their fear being the jailer,

Covered by the haze of delusion,

For those that are at helm,

Every port is an illusion,

A glimmer of hope is tossed,

A brilliant flare lit by one,

A red herring in the sea of blood,

Bright as day but seen by none,

Between the devil and the dark abyss,

Where choices are next to none,

Not much can be expected from life,

When even your reason for hope is gone,

Where your thinking is a sin,

And the skipper's is the law,

In spite of his repeated failures,

Taboo is exposing his flaw,

The unforgiving waters of the storm,

Where a soul can't think free,

Even on a sinking vessel,

Coerced compliance is the norm,

About to be swallowed by the sea,

One wonders what we be,

Souls ,forever condemned?

Or,finally,we are free?

THE POE-TIC SCHOLAR

Sitting at the table,burning the midnight oil,
 The scholar dipped his quill .
 Rewriting history,from present to past; his writing gave him thrills.

 Gazing behind his back,a sound;he turned around. But nothing seemed to be there,as he kept looking in fear....

 Then the sound slithered nearer,louder he could hear,a whisper,
 That's something he couldn't bear;his canvas of reasoning in tatters,
 He picked up his walking stick and waved it around... Still looking for the sound,thoughts abound,he shivered. 

The whisper came back,now more like a hiss but still not to be found.

Round and round went the writer,now a desperate fighter,out of guesses and looking for more...
Maybe,he thought the sound is from the shore,sounding louder than before.

Must be the stillness of night that gave him the fright..
And then the sound came back but now he had found the source. 
Up on the shelf was sitting a raven that whispered,now louder, “Do not be afraid;I am no foe,just a bird from the dead that has brought you a message.

 The writer read the message:

”Fear not,my friend,I ran out of ink,so I sent my bird while I grabbed a drink,It's not what you think;I frequently run short so have a heart and oblige so our friendship can start.I promise you ,though,your fear won't repeat so sit down on your seat and write some more. 

Your friend;not foe, 

Edgar Allan Poe."

AN ODE TO A BEE

 Stupid bee ,drinking tea,
 Rudely sitting on my mug, 
I express my disgust by shooing it away,
 Back again she comes ,the intolerably insolent bug,
 This keeps on repeating every time I drink,
The tea;that is,with a smoke ,in solitude,
 I just want to be left in peace,with my tea, 
The last thing I need from her is attitude,
 Again,I shoo her away with no effect
; She promptly comes back,again, with an angry glare,
 Then I give up and leave a puddle of tea for her, 
Soon enough,she comes back and gives it a stare,
 Oddly,I share my private moment,
 In the company of a persistent bee,
What an amusing thing that I watch, 
The bee absorbed in sipping a “cuppa” tea,
 Interested in only the “nectar”,
 Least bothered that I will,again,shoo,
 She keeps doing the work of her life, 
Her mind fixated on the puddle ;as if with glue,
 A strange relationship that we have developed, 
Meeting for tea , morning and noon,
 But if this ridiculous relationship continues, 
I may have to ask her out very soon,
 Going out with a bee?;Have a lost my mind?,
 It that my only alternative to go out?; 
Is there no one else that I can find?,
 Still,I try to feel her vibes,
 Looking at her grace ,her hairs,her flutter,
 I try to touch her just a little bit,
 And the tea comes out in a splutter,
 As I stand in a state of shock,
 She gives me a dirty look,
Her dignity unruffled,
 Whatever chances I had of being her friend, 
My come hither actions left them completely muffled.

RED RAINBOWS

Tucked between towering peaks,
To the alien beholder,a paradise;
A place seen like never before,
An ancient dwelling of the wise,

Arcane things happen here,
To many a cause of distress,
To some,a valley of doom,
But, still,a place so dear,

Truly,Providence's paradox;
It's virtually impossible to explain,
The box that Pandora left behind,
Full of mystery,conundrum,and pain,

A place where even a rainbow,
Appears under a veil of red,
Lest the ground underneath shake,
In an attempt to speak for the dead,

In the colour that indicates life,
Or the colour that stains the dead,
It's a place where colour is seen,
But only as a shade of red.

THE ASH IN THE URN

With crackling fire does the conscience burn,
Indifferent souls that think they are right,
Blind to the unending suffering and plight,
Will selfish humanity ever try to learn?,

Livelihoods vanish ,with little to earn,
Reasoning is afraid to see the light,
With everything dark,nay, black as night,
Remains of dreams like ashes in an urn,

Take the lambs away from the knife,
Lift the lid on the earthen pot,
Scatter the ashes that it has got.
Again we can grow the tree of life,

Given a chance to start anew,
Life will surely find a way,
From the soil that we can plow,
A matter of now;not a question of how,

For indefinite times the tyrants may reign,
Indifferent to our plight,suffering,and pain,
But this is something that we can change,
We can think,therefore we can resolve,

With better means than the violent clashes,
The phoenix can rise again from the ashes.
Learning from what has happened before,
Humans can survive,nay,thrive evermore.

THE HIBERNATING BEAR

The hibernating bear,so clean and white,
Not a drop of blood on his fur,

He cleans the spills of his summer kills,
The summer's exploits just a blur,

It is quite amazing;he looks so clean,
Not a shred of evidence to show,
For the gullible ones;they have no fear,
Of his instincts they don’t know,

Wont stir unless shaken,
In spring he will awaken,
The blood, he will thirst for more,

For all the grace,
He shows on his face,
He will come back as before,

While all that I wrote is quite true,
The bear does not really hate you,

It's just his nature to feed on fear,
He’s just being a polar bear,

To attack who are weak,
Their life being cheap,

His conscience flows down the creek.
With animal instinct,
Being very distinct,

Here logic and reasoning don't exist.
The Alpha male,
Will call the shots,
And the weaker won't really resist.

OF MORAL ROT

The crumpled leaf of a tree,
Hidden under the snow,
Rotting away in glee,
Little does it know,

Reminiscent of the lot,
That feel the inner warmth,
Oblivious to the rot,
Responsible for the glow,

It should not be surprising,
That the inner fire is cursed,
The mercury keeps rising,
To quench the macabre thirst,

Thus hideth the killer,
Of certain people's conscience,
Masquerading as an angel,
Of moral cracks,the filler,

Believing to be pure,
Pretending to be benevolent,
With a sweet poison radiating,
It's nothing but malevolent,

The rotting warmth can never,
Beget anything good,
Even the eggs that it nurtures,
Will form a cold blooded brood.

OF VIRTUE AND VICE

Deep in the heart of winter,
A faint glimmer;a glow,
From the embers that set peace ablaze,
When the winter is over;we know,

 Spring will thaw the peace,
From the calming cover of ice,
It's a well planned strategy,
And not a game of dice,

But, still ,it feels like a gamble,
The perpetual ritual again,
Some months of rest in winter,
The spring then brings the pain,

Foolish are those that learn not,
From the repetition of events, again,
A sin it is to ignore this,
To exist with nothing to gain,

It’s a pity when a people,
Live their lives as sheep,
Following others blindly,
Down the crevasse that's deep,

Maybe not a game of dice,
It is surely something evil,
When those that preach the virtues,
Are themselves filled with vice.

THE TOUGH-REICH PREDATOR

In all directions they go,
The thoughts of the “thoughtful” wise,
Everything,they claim to know,
But hear they not the cries?,

Wandering like the curious cat,
O'ver the pooling of spills,
Collected over a few months,
The cat's adventurous kills,

In the case,aforementioned,
Curiosity is not the killer,
The killer is the cat;
The cunning blood spiller,

The smell of blood still fresh,
The beast is thirsty for more,
Unsatiated;his hunger,
Petrifying;his roar.

A MIND FULL OF MOMENTS

Gone are the wonder years,
Remembered with a sigh,
Clasped in the claws of time,
The cherished memories ;aye,

Standing guard with their halberds,
The sentinels of the past,
In mind's endless nooks and crannies,
Filled with moments ;amassed,

The sounds,smells,and images,
The past,locked,but ready to open,
The unconscious mind holding the keys,
Just because;no reason why,

We keep retrieving,day and night,
Many times, a surprising find,
With no limits in time or space,
A world in itself;the human mind,

The cognitive connections within,
The antics of Ammon's horn,
Amygdala's emotional outbursts,
The seat of a moment's sojourn,

Privy to our private thoughts,
Deep under the brain's “skin”,
Is the psyche that defines us,
In the world as we come in.

A HUNDRED DAYS OF WHAT?

A hundred days of what?
A hundred days so slow,
A hundred days have passed,
A hundred days,we know,

For the number it represents,
And the blood it has spilled,
For the kids that were blinded,
For the people that were killed,

A milestone for some,
A feather in someone's cap,
A tombstone for others,
A dead child in someone's lap,

A hundred days of struggle,
A hundred days of tears,
A hundred days of confusion,
A hundred days of fears,

A hundred days of dread,
A hundred days we have seen,
With a hundred actions commendable,
And a thousand more, obscene,

A hundred days of hunger,
For those without bread,
When a hundred fools prevented,
A hundred from being fed,

A hundred days for the forces,
With a hundred ways to deal,
With all the ghastly weapons,
An amplified ordeal,

A hundred days without school,
A hundred books not read,
With a hundred excuses in the morning,
To death's door,were the children lead,

A hundred days of this circus,
The leaders that run the show,
With a hundred clowns to boot,
Who let the economy blow,

Blasted to the past,
No vision for the future,
These cuts just won't heal;
There is no way to suture,

That's what happens to leaders,
With logic at the speed of snails,
In a confused conundrum, full of delusion,
When the dog does not wag it's tail,

With the expected propriety missing,
They start by holding it's tail,
Then they swing their fists and wag the dog,
And still don't think that they failed.

THE FLAMES OF THE CHINAR LEAF

The fading light and the watery eyes,
the burning leaves, lifted,
The flames lick the air around,
just as the fire is sifted,
In the breezy gardens, by the banks,
burning in the setting sun.
Watched by the lone gatherers,
Each pile tended by one,

Gathering the smoldering embers,
to warm the autumn's chill,
promptly put in the portable pot,
taking care not to spill,

Off goes the Kashmiri,
through  the shadows of the sun,
In the warmth of his woolen gown,
he has, worries, none,

Warmth is such a simple thing,
and small, like the smoldering pot.
Tucked away under his gown,
A portable happiness, he has got.

It's something he can share,
with whomsoever he wishes,
Poor as he may seem,
his day is full of riches,

His leathery face bears a life well spent,
content in simplicity, without sorrow.
Just small moments of happiness,
Without the worry of tomorrow,

For, the next day,
he will recreate the warmth;
temporary, again,
Happiness is, no doubt, in links,
ready to smother pain,

All one needs to do is gather,
and complete the happiness chain.
The wise will understand this secret,
while the fools will struggle in vain.

THE OLD RED SQUARE

In the middle of the city,
By the timekeeping tower,
Is the old Red Square,

Redder than it's name,
More crimson than ever,
Do visit if you dare,

Universal in time,
If anything is a witness,
It's the feeling in the air,

Washed by the flood,
And repainted red,
Is this burden that we bear,

It was here that a leader,
Made his promises,
With his usual flair,

And it is this very place,
Where a people have risen,
With a feeling that they share,

Also an axis of death,
The Reaper hovers around,
Not so Grim over here,

A juxtaposition of values,
A bastion of hope,
And the pit of despair,

A curse for the forces,
Who are dragged to confront,
A people that don't care,

In the middle of the city,
By the timekeeping tower,
Is the old Red Square

THE SQUIRREL AND THE TREE

A cold winter's morning,as the dark clouds dropped,
The squirrel went down the tree,

With an impending storm,and the food stash gone,
The critter was wandering around,

All his efforts in the fall,and the nuts he stored,
Had all now gone to waste.

Mad with rage,he wondered aloud and cursed the day;
It pained.

OF PATHS AND TRAILS

Tossed between two forces,
With no one ready to care,
The people yearn for peace,
And a life devoid of fear,

Too many people have died,
A far too many disappeared.
With no one accepting the guilt,
Nothing but the worst is feared,

I understand the logic of resistance,
Not to bow down;to protest,
A shorter life with dignity,
Is better than a long one,oppressed,

But the rate at which people are dying,
An army can afford to lose many,
But,sooner or later,my friends,
Kashmiris:There won't be any,

So,if our inevitable extinction,
Is at the end of our path,
We need to pick a machete,
And then proceed to cut a new swathe,

So shun this method of protest,
Express in a different way,
Kashmiris need to survive,
Until the Judgement Day.

IGNORANCE AND BLISS

Leaders, all set to brush away,
The schools that enhance life,
Courtesy their atrophied hearts,
Education is under the knife,

“Nay,”some say, “'tis not true”,
“Teaching is very much there”,
Especially for their progeny,
That's their definition of “fair”,

Indeed,it does make complete sense,
When there’s no school for the masses,
Duty bound are our great leaders,
To send their kids to the classes,

Safe, away, outside the vale,
They are duly groomed,
Ready to lead over the next generations,
Whose education is doomed,

As each child is raised without school,
His life will waste away,
The future will have nothing for him;
While the elite will get it on a tray,

In vain is this sacrifice,
The Kashmiri masses have made,
Sadly, towards education,
A farewell to which they bade,

“Freedom around the corner”,
Is the rhetoric now in vogue.
Less among the masses;
More around the rogue,

We all speak of freedom,
I do find myself free,
Free to speak the truth,when needed,
Consequences,whatever may be,

Death comes to one and all,
The injustice, I will resist.
I choose to live my life in truth,
While others can foolishly exist,

Is this the cost for “Freedom”?,
Is that what means as “Free”?,
When a child in Kashmir doesn't know,
That one plus two is three.

NU CLEAR PEACE

“Nuke” is a small word,
A word too small to see,
See,as in it's very essence,
The mushroom cloud ,it be,

Unlike the mushrooms we eat,
It's something far more profound,
For it flattens cities within it's grasp,
Just as it falls on the ground,

Forget Fat and Little Boy,
Their yield was just around twenty.
The yield of Pakistan and India?
In hundreds; more than plenty,

All it will take is a fool,
To press the option for release,
And bring upon the two warring nations,
Ten thousand years of peace,

Peace it will be for everyone,
As the priorities will change again,
For,now,they will have to deal with,
The effects of the radioactive rain,

O,fools that glorify nukes,
Go ,see the museums that display,
The photos of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Where children were vaporized at play,

Or see the photos of the aberrations,
That the nuclear dust created,
For generations the people gave birth,
To freaks ,shunned and hated,

Yes,it's easy to press the button,
When you can't have your way,
Even if the cost is a catastrophe,
Courtesy,your nerves in fray,

It takes special kinds of fools,
To bring upon damnation,
When you try to act like God,
There really is no salvation,

If you think I'm kidding,
Read some history,please,
And do look at the fallout effects;
It'll make Chernobyl look like a tease.

WARMONGERING ME(IN)DIA

“Let's have a war”,they say;
Their twisted agenda is clear,
Nationalistic passions ,profound;
To them,a protracted war is dear,

Not surprising at all,
They are safe and sound,
Behind monitors and keyboards,
These warmongers are found,

With their propagandistic projections,
They take steps, to picture,
Devastation, as delusion at it's finest,
Presented like a sacred scripture,

Some will watch the war on their phones,
Eating ice cream on the park benches,
While the soldiers eat their daily rations,
On both sides of the border, in trenches,

But,not to worry;there may be no war,
With all the shouting,neither can fight,
Yes,thirsting for blood,they may scream,
But all they have is bark and no bite,

But the important fact is actually this:
A rodeo is not led by the clown,
Any protracted war on Kashmir,
Will bring both economies down,

With all the whataboutery that you do,
In the end,it all comes down to this fact,
In spite of a threat to civilization itself,
Both the countries have shown no tact,

So while you are upping the ante,
Ready to set the sub-continent ablaze,
There are other countries watching;
They too have a dog in the fight,

As for us,we will survive,
We did survive the biblical flood,
We have taken a lot and we'll take more;
We are Kashmiri;it's in our blood.

RIOTS,RIGHTS,AND RESPITE

No human rights,no animal rights,
Profundity of the pain,
By justifying brutal methods,
Absolutely nothing to gain,

Not for the rebels,nor their supporters,
Not for the policeman,or for the forces,
Now,human rights have been withheld,
Even when it comes to the horses,

The truth stands for itself,
Regardless through whom it's told,
Could be from the rebel or the soldier,
Or the kids,the infirm,and the old,

Every child that loses his father,
Every woman that loses her son,
Every soldier that is killed,
That's the curse of the gun,

There is a path to peace,
The ball is in India's court,
Accept 1953 as the first step,
And you will have support,

Keep the future options open,
Let's talk about today,
If we really feel free from oppression,
We just may decide to stay,

Follow the example of England,
Where the Scots were able to decide,
And they chose to remain with England,
Because England had nothing to hide,

It teaches you a lot about governance,
When,after centuries of occupation,
A defeated people still choose,
The control of the occupying nation,

In the end the decision is ours,
How we want to stay,
It's up to you to convince us,
To which side be our way.

A STONE'S THROW FROM INDEPENDENCE

All get ready for the street side run,
A throw in the air with zest and flair,
Fling them all in two's and four's,
The ever broken ego for Bob to repair,

Just a stone it is,flying in the air,
Neither a blade nor a gun,
Ready to go with an adrenalin rush,
It will help those about to run,

Except for the kids that tagged along,
Not the very big but the very small,
Some full of anger,others full of fear,
Your persuasion made them tall,

With some of the big having made a run,
And the little sitting ducks just cornered here,
The security forces get ready to react,
A fairly new chapter in the vale of despair,

A flying stone towards a soldier,
What reaction is he supposed to give?,
Don't expect a bouquet of flowers,
He's trained to kill in order to live,

The situation is worse when you add the kids,
They have no purpose in this fight,
For every blind eye or life that's lost,
Sending children in battle is just not right,

The masses sacrifice at your behest,
You never ever have or ever will,
And you,being cowards,never can't either;
It was never your own blood to spill.

THE STONE AGE, THE STONED AGE, AND THE AGE OF STONING

The three Ages of Stone,
Seven thousand for one,
A dozen years for two,
Then the first two Ages were done,

The first Age came early,
Man,primitive,with flaws
An early,Early Man,
Under the fear of claws,

So he made better weapons,
Improved over bone,
Gone was the “primitive”;
Man,deftly carving stone,

The Stoned Age came much later,
Amidst the first foolish wars.
The marijuana & mushroom joints,
The roar of the muscle cars,

The Age of Stoning is here now,
More poignant than others,
It's the Age of flinging Stones,
In Kashmir,sisters and brothers,

Not that protests are not justified,
With all the brute force let loose,
It's just that the logic is confusing,
By the primitive methods that we choose,

Useless, the pen's might,
Wisdom in it's last throes.
Submission,demand the leaders,
And the miserable Kashmiri bows,

Death,fear, and depravity,
Caused by the leaders' behaviors,
Are they the biggest crooks?
Nay;they are the “saviors”!,

With astronomical demands ,
The leaders are many,
Their own children safe;
They haven't sacrificed any,

That's okay,I suppose;
The leaders are exempt,
Stone pelting is for the masses,
The classes?: only to tempt,

Have we ceased to be human?,
Have we declined to think?,
Closing our eyes to reality,
Never did once we blink,

Some say ,follow the one,
Who does not change his stand,
We do have the Devil,
Then do we shake his hand?,

Admitting these facts is a“sin”,
The cowards can hurt you fast,
But once Kashmiris have risen,
Their threats won't really last,

So throw onto them ;
What they throw onto you,
Go on your marches,
But invite them too,

Then be amazed by the way,
The rhetoric will vanish,
The marches and the pelting,
They themselves will banish,

Or do nothing;
Just suffer and wait,
Until they lure you,
With yet another bait,

The fact is that kids are kids,
Not instruments of war,
They need a future,
Not a dream that's too far,

Anyone who coerces a child to fight,
Deserves to be kicked out from society;outright.

TO TOY WITH ROY

TO TOY WITH ROY

Having lost it's identity,
India's new tradition,
Stifles free speech by novelists,
And accuses them of sedition,

A Booker Prize winner,
Arundhati Roy,a writer of repute,
Can't freely speak her mind,
Her speeches, a dispute,

The absurdity is the fact,
She went to the best schools,
And became a renowned writer,
Only to be judged by fools,

Accused of sedition,
Ostracized for what she has done,
Famous around the world,
A friend,in India,she has none,

Even some Englishmen,in India,
Criticized their rule,
Were they also seditious?,
Or is saying that cruel?,

Is poetry also sedition?,
or just prose?,
Is there any reasoning left?,
Or anything goes,

The India that I remember,
Was never like this,
Kashmiri students felt safe,
And studied in bliss,

Now a Kashmiri,in India,
Has good reasons to fear,
Those that should protect him,
Obviously don't care,

Of all the terms misused,
We now have an addition,
In the company of PSA and AFSPA,
In vogue now,is SEDITION,

If this ignorance continues,
Injustice may go on a spree,
Speaking is banned ,as it is,
Even thinking won't be free.

SEVEN DECADES OF SEPARATION

A sound in the dark has meanings,
Different for all and one,
In the noise that permeates the air,
Avoidance can be for none,

Sleep is a precious thing,
For the Kashmiri in his house,
To wake him from his slumber,
All it can take is a mouse,

These days are so stale,
Like the food stored,if any,
Hidden faces so pale,
Unbeknownst to many,

All it takes is a mouse,
To stir the midnight air,
And make a person nervous,
Utterly frozen with fear,

We are men and not mice,
Dignity taken,with pride,
Such a deranged marriage it was,
When the Maharaja chose the bride.

THE EPIPHANY OF HELLFIRE

Of pride and prejudice;no pun is intended,
But the prevailing "truths" floating around,
Have left my logical edifice distended,
With no clear conclusion to be found,

There are two ways to an argument,
And an epiphany has one,
For, an epiphany is the absolute truth,
An argument:true only when won,

Truth is very strange when spoken freely,
It will open doors of wisdom, when accepted,
And it will put you behind closed doors ,when not,
But,whatever the reaction,you will be respected,

You can either speak the truth,
Or you can keep it inside,
Truth has the ability to leak;
Forever,it cannot hide,

Truth is about speaking up,
It's not about taking a side,
It is about fighting falsehood;
Not taking someone for a ride,

The truth, when you are afraid to tell,
Know that life is just passing by,
One day you will account for being quiet,
That day you may end up in hell.

THE CORRUPTED ROOSTERS

It's hard to live without trust,
In Kashmir,people exist,
With decades of corruption,
Did we really resist?,

We forgot how we were duped,
By the very leaders that we chose,
Filling their own hidden pockets;
We cheered them as they rose,

Or do we forget the fact,
That we have a special trait,
We don't think before choosing,
And let the“chosen one” dictate,

Maybe this is why we're here,
Our naivety knows no bounds,
Like prey we scamper about,
Chased by the hunter's hounds,

Unless we change the way we think,
And start pondering more,
Our lives will remain the same;
We’ll continue as before,

In the cock fight between the two,
We stand like a spectator,
Betting on who might win;
Either ways, a dictator,

Before we fight the giants,
Before we climb that hill,
Inside our soul are demons,
We really need to kill,

But if we take the path,
Which stops this unending fight,
We will have traversed the darkness,
And finally entered light,

Walking the path of wisdom,
Our logic will get some legs.
Cockfights are not fought with hens,
And a rooster won't lay any eggs.

THE BLIND SHOOTER

The person shot in the eyes can see,
It's the the shooter that is blind ,
Blind because ,for his actions,
All excuses can he find,

Yes ,they are flinging stones,
Fair for you to fling them back,
But when you bring in a shotgun,
For the protestor's resolve,there is no slack,

Because as each person is blinded,
For every person that's dead,
There is no looking back now;
Too much blood has been shed,

The protests may get violent,
And stone pelting may be wrong,
But when you confront more,
Their feeling stays strong,

They come out on their own,
Hearts full of rage,
Your shot guns won't stop them;
Neither will age,

Stop blinding children,
Or sending them to the grave..
Oppressing the weak,
Does not make you brave,

So if you don't try to reason,
Then  you won't find a way,
The entire world will confront you;
Then you will have no say,

So do the right thing now,
Just agree to disagree,
Let there be a ceasefire,
So that we can live as free.

TO BEE A REBEL

A rebel is a bee,
Stinging is a trait,
If you don't move quickly,
It might be too late,

If you act fast,
You can kill a bee,
But do not be surprised,
When in it's place you find three,

You could try a little more,
And break the hive in two,
But know that the outcome,
Might not be good for you,

So ,if you see a bee,
 Let it go it's way,
And when you see a hive,
Approach in a cautious way,

It's not about prestige,
It's not about money,
Live in peace with the bees,
And ,forever,enjoy the honey.

THE FREEDOM TO FORCE

Freedom for one,two or all,
But do we understand the meaning?
We all strive for an answer,
But,in all directions, we are leaning,

Freedom to speak whatever we want,
It's freedom,yes,but which cannot be forced.
Because you can't be free to hurt others,
They,also being free,cannot be coerced,

Bizarre is the behavior that we really do possess,
Like monkeys on the evolutionary tree,
We sit on our branches and look without seeing ,
We force thoughts on others and call ourselves free,

Yes,freedom has many meanings ;it's not a simple word,
Bringing happiness and sorrow like a double edged sword.

THE SLOPPY FLOP

Once upon a land so weary,
That sense would always flop,
Wisdom trudged like a snail;
The leaders would cheerfully hop,

Life is lived to the hilt;
Not with subsistence,
Otherwise it's not life;
Merely an existence,

Wait,some are still living that life,
With misdirection galore,
The leaders fly in the sky;
The masses crawl on the floor,

When absurdity rules the roost,
There's two things one can do,
Accept the miserable life,
Or follow the right thing through.

GETTING TO RIDE THE BULL

Oh,ever so lightly do we think;
In life there is so much to see,
Being the reason for happiness to all,
That is the person to be,

Like the snowflakes we are unique,
But the softness is always the same.
Each of us is really a human,
Born with a different name,

So take your life by it's horns,
And ride it like a bull,
And help those that are unhappy,
Your joy will still be full,

Wake up early,brightly,
And go about your day.
And if you get really lucky,
A wretch might come your way,

All it takes is a smile,
To help a friendship begin,
And all it takes is a heart,
To wipe the tears within,

Then consider yourself lucky,
That you have found a friend,
And be,forever,in his debt,
For giving you a heart to mend.

THE HYSTERICAL MASSES

Mass hysteria can leave no pain,
In the hearts of the foolish;not wise,
For the wise will deflect the repugnant thought,
Amidst the ignorant cries,

It's easy to say;not easy to do,
When pressure is all around.
To filter the filth that comes to you,
From where no logic is found,

It does not take many to think,
And follow the sensible path.
Even with one,the job is done,
Somewhat delayed;not rath.

THE MADDEST TEA PARTY

Mad,because,it follows the story,
The story of Alice who fell down the hole,
Into a world full of bizarre characters ,and more,
Just like the history of the Kashmiri soul,

With all kinds of characters that came forth and still do,
The common Kashmiri is reduced to just ink,
With each stroke of the writer's pen,
The Kashmiri is caught between the words;not able to think,

With so many characters ,let's start with one,
The March Hare,whose name fits really well,
Because he is missing in winter and shows up in spring,
In Wonderland,throughout the summer,he will dwell,

He will start the summer with a cheer for the masses,
Mind you;he is not supported by all;
His group includes the common man and the classes.
Ever ready to attend to his call,

Kashmir,his summer home,will bubble to the boiling point,
The “normal” life will slow down and stall,
With all the youth that come out at his behest,
Many will be struck with reality ,and fall,

Then comes the Queen of Hearts,
Promising the moon;she smiles with glee,
Not doing what really needs to be done,
She loses her temper ,then offers some tea,

The Mad Hatter,sucking the lifeblood of the masses,
And famous for his antics,his chatter,
Plays golf;spends time on the greens,
He never really did change,except he's fatter.

“WHAT IS A GUN?”

.
For some,it's duty, for others it's fun,
It forces you to freeze or forces you to run,
In the hands of the foolish it's feared by all,
In the hands of the wise,it's feared by none,

It multiplies the power of the holder, to force,
But gives the beholder just the the power of one,
It tells the holder that he can choose,
And reminds the beholder that he will lose,

It gives the coward a mask of fearlessness,
And lets him act in a manner of carelessness,
It mutes the person who tries to speak,
And forces words from those that won't,

It is a weapon designed, exclusively, to kill,
And add to the graveyard a body to fill,

It compels the people to abide by the rules,
Even if these were set by the biggest fools,

For the tyrants,it's always been the weapon of choice,
The people are forced to follow while the tyrants rejoice.

A WISE THOUGHT

The wisdom comes from within,ever so quietly,
Like a whisper of the breeze that shakes the leaves,
Quiet because we do resist this harder thought,slightly,
Wisdom from within,stunted,comes from without,

As the colours change with the seasons,
And the leaves fall from the branches,
We run out of the compelling reasons,
And wonder what it is all about,

To stay in the dark about what holds true,
To ignore the wisdom that tickles our ears,
In all the things that we are accustomed to do,
So ,now,we see why we gave in to our fears,

It is never too late to accept the truth,
Regardless of how it is brought,
For all the reasons that we do resist,
What makes us civilized is thought.

THE FREEDOM SQUEAK

Taking our right to speak,
No health care for the weak;
Freedom is not so bleak,
.
Pushing us to to the edge,
Onto the crumbling ledge;
Freedom is not a fall,

Asking us to give,
The very means to live;
Freedom is not a wall,

Freedom is the right to act,
When no tyrant will react.

Freedom is the right to speak,
Especially for the weak..

FRUITLESS

So strong do we feel in the land of the brave,
With sleepless nights and the tempers boiling.
The options are running out for them;
The best that they have are toiling,

Wondering what happened to the plough,
They keep try to pull ahead,
The fact is that they are tilling,
A land that has long been dead,

Dead ;for them,nothing will grow,
In an alien land they try to dwell,
And the soil,full of rocks,will make them slow,
In the land where they cannot sleep,

It is a known fact that you cannot plant,
Dates next to an apple tree,
No matter how hard you try,
In the suffering land of the free.

THE DEAD MASQUE OF LIFE

The eyes don't see,the ears don't hear, emotions rule,
O,leaders,in safety you have nested,Kashmir is burning down,
We trusted you deeply and did what you asked,
Yodellers of today,your voices go far and wide;to every town,

Rhetoric with impassioned goals,your rantings make me think,
I wonder what is inside your lair. The answer to our problems?.Or just a ride,
In your castles you stay,a assured of safety by the masque of death itself,
With every room holding secrets that could conflict with either side,

That is a side that we won't see until we enter your door,
Wiping the cobwebs from our minds, walking the crumbling floor,
In spite of what you tell us about you ,we do want more,

I certainly remember someone that wrote about a place like this,
A place that was cursed with a dangerous plague,
The prince was afraid that death would chase him down,
Not that I remember the details well;my memory is vague,

So he thought that ,in his abbey, he would be safe and sound,
He gathered the wealthy nobles and hosted a ball,
Amidst this gathering came a stranger,wearing a masque.
He went from room to room,until did everyone fall,

The story is fiction ;nothing is true,
Except what it tells us about our plight,
We follow cowards that bargain with death,
They are in denial about wrong and right,

Be fooling us all these years,
We inherited these endless tears,
t'is the misery that everyone shares.

THE MOTHER OF ALL THAT MATTERS

Behold the mother crying,
For the child that she can't hold.
Pockmarked with holes on his face,
With the other children,cold,

He was just three or four,
A flower ,blooming bright,
Until he started defying,
The strength that the forces hold,

What is this type of struggle?,
Where we lose our future's bright.
What are these types of forces?,
That justify evil with might,

And then some promise something,
And then they promise more.
Where exactly are we heading?,
Your actions we really deplore,

We don't know what is freedom,
Until we are able to speak,
And while the world is watching,
All you do is sharpen your beak,

You may be the biggest vultures,
Or any other birds of prey,
You still can't deny our freedom,
To choose how we will stay,

Stuck between two owls,
Lies the fate of all,
One on the great old tree,
And the other just ready to fall,

We want to have some peace now,
And true justice for all,
But nothing will ever happen,
If all you do is stall,

So take a cue from this,
You can make a stand,
Renounce the way of oppression,
Then all will shake your hand.

THE DECAYING HUMAN PSYCHE

It's hard to think just what is right when you are going through pain,
Forced to say what seems just right in the times of moral decay,
No freedom of thought,no freedom of life,no dignity at all,
These are the times when morals will go;wickedness will come to stay,

We are not one,there have been many,now too embarrassed to tell,
The things they did,the words they said ,the nonsense that they read.
Need I tell you in great detail how societies did fail?,
With banners high, euphoric cries,and millions ending up dead,

Listen my friends,I kid you not,humanity’s all we’ve got,
Do have no fear,these tests are there,you will go through some pain,
We need to stand for what is right and live a humane life,
Or else go down in history as the quintessential human stain.

THE BUNKERED BRAVADO

Helter skelter,looking for shelter;cursed as can be,
You get called to serve your land,with no idea of fear,
You fight a foe that you don't know except what you’re told,
In the vale that's full of hate because you’re not from there?

In lonely bunkers across the towns ,you live with fear and pray,
You don't want this but you will still fight because you think it's right,
You have to think before you act because of who you are,
The world really is watching you;you’re not out of their sight,

You are like us ,we are like you,we hold some things as true.
We are humans,we have children,we do find war as cruel,
Like harming those that do not fight and want to live in peace,
Or beating children until you're done transforming them to blue,

The tortures and detentions will not be seen as fun,
So why not start by making peace and not confront the mob.?,
Or continue like you always do and still be chased ,and run,

A fight will only happen when both are ready for war,
But stepping down one small step may lead us very far.
So here's wishing that come what may,we still will find a path.
Where you are safe and we are good,so we can knock on wood.

THE SOUNDS AND SLUMBER

Slope to slope ,a vale of yore,and the setting sun,
With cue for the wise,the lesser noise;darkness is creeping.
Black is the night,no sign of light,the stray are howling,
Louder is the silence,and nervous;the people sleeping,

Many cannot sleep,the distressed cannot weep,no sound is heard,
Except for the boots,that step along the routes,announcing they are here,
Dull ,bleak,and dreary,the companions of the weary,this feeling is insane,
The heart ticks in fear,nothing can compare,no respite is near.

Not a life,this is a curse,
For all we did and all we do.
We know the truth.
But are we true?

THE DROWNING CONSCIENCE

Bravo,bravo,the country's best,
Showing your strength to the weak,
Then hiding your head in the sand,
Trying to stop those wanting to speak?,

Chasing small boys along the path,
Where's the logic? How is it right?,
Forcing the kids to jump in the waters,
They are just kids but have you no sight?,

One would think that now you would stop,
Seeing the helpless in the river,
On solid ground,perched were you,
Hurting them would make most shiver,

You picked the bricks and flung them in,
Towards the children who had no sin,
You smashed his head while he drowned,
You missed the rest and ,maybe, you frowned,

Yes, this was just a hunt for you,
 For Kashmir is the cage of the free,
Where savages roam in search of prey,
And the world just sits down to see.

BIBLICAL BLUNDERS

In the land of mystics ,we are entranced,
We follow blindly in complete trust,
Much like mice that followed the piper,
We leave our conscience open to dust,

Are we fools?Nay,it can't be,
Then why do we not gather the lot?,
And show them the truth,staring at ye,
That we follow God;which he is not,

Again and again,when lost was the law,
Prophets were sent to guide us straight,
There is still time to correct our flaw,
We can't stall ;it's already late,

We have our Book,a gift from God,
It's there for all to see,
What we gather from the knowledge it has,
Will make our closed minds free,

So do set forth and be the men that follow the word of God,
Protect the weak,protect the poor ,open the closed mind's door,
Sent forth to you is all you need to stick to the truth like glue,
Empty the lies,clean out the mess and leave it on the floor.

OF INTENTIONS AND PRETENSIONS

Oh,leaders,I do consider your stated intentions.
And I don't judge you by what you say,
But there is one thing;come what may,
I am really getting tired of your pretensions,

You always call us your integral part,
But the people are waiting to see you do,
Just one little action to see you prove,
That you are human,that you have a heart,

Or,maybe it's just that you pretend to try,
Or,maybe you just humor us now,
Or,maybe you do not say what you mean,
There may be bigger fish for you to fry,

THE WEEPING REAPERS

No peace ,all pain,with nothing to gain we keep our faith in sight,
As Kashmiris we are wondering what really happened to us,
Was it a curse ,is there some verse that will explain our plight,

In spite of knowledge of the Scripture,we failed miserably thus:

We swore by God ,we kept our fast with life as blessed could be,
Until the time we got fooled and lost the wisdom to see,
So now,we thought,with the logic we got that the minority is a pin,

'tis a mistake that we made and slipped down the hole of sin,
Most were good,some were bad,but all were sad for this,
They had to leave with the little they got and live in a tiny room,
Don't you deny your part in this because God was watching you,

You sicken me ,because of you,we got punished with gloom,
Even I ,who wasn’t there,but did know of your plight,
Read the news outside Kashmir but did not shed a tear,
I covered my eyes,lay in dark,away from the light,

Was I really worshipping Allah?Had I not any fear?
Even as we were coasting down the rugged road of time,
We kept ignoring our lot with whom we shared our blood,
And then came down the Providence that people are known to fear,

A people failing humanity were punished with the flood,
We pride ourselves as Muslims but we don't really see,
Instead of helping the weaker lot,we watch and smile with glee.

RESTRICTED RESPITE

Restricted days and curfewed nights.
Status quo in the Vale,
One wonders when the hearts will thaw,
The efforts are going stale,

Yes, the “wise” did send a group,
They claim that they are ready to talk.
Baffled we are by this gesture,
when none ,on the street,are allowed to walk,

The world is watching you and thinks,
Is this a joke or is this a cry?
With all the avenues available,
Is this all that you could try?,

Even then whom would you help?
Not the one that lost her child.
Or even those that were few,
Who had to flee when some turned wild,

Can your efforts bring back time?
Will you secure the future as bright?
We are a people;not just land,
It's your thinking that's not right,

We want the place that we once had,
A garden full of bliss,
Bring up a truce that takes us back,
To the times that we miss.

THE CRIPPLING SUFFERING

Crippling is the suffering;
Not filling your heart with glee,
The things you promise to deliver,
So that you can call us free.

He will tremble but still stand,
The person who fights fear,
When death comes from afar,
To smite him when it's near,

Some of the war is a mystery,
The truth is all but known,
People were sent to die,
No genocide was shown

At the end of the day,it matters,
regardless of what some say,
It's people fighting people,
Humanity gone away,

There is no end to this,
The fires are still alight,
How many more to die?,
Before we pause the fight.

Let people have a life,
Like other people around,
No one wants a graveyard,
Devoid of any sound.

A BAD TEA PARTY

We went ahead; not looking back,
The doves of peace we killed and ate,
For all the peace that we could get,
We easily resigned ourselves to fate,

As if the things we hate will go,
As if ,our guilt will vanish in light,
As much we think that we did try,
It never really did stop the fight,

We follow like lambs the shepherds that lead,
We do rejoice;the denial we keep,
Not thinking once that, lambs, we are not,
We don't see that the abyss is deep,

Down the hole where rabbits stay,
We like to join the group,
Our conscience,dead,on the table it lays,
In the mad hatter's troupe.

OF BLOSSOMS AND BUDS

In the land of strife,silence will weep,
And none will hear the pain,
Why even bother;silence is cheap,
All has been in vain,

With all the buds that never blossomed,
The memories that were left on clay,
The Kashmiris wonder what has happened,
In the garden where they used to play,

For thousands of years,the seeds were safe,
In the structures seen from space
But not the seeds that we destroyed,
Just when we fell from grace,

'tis the sorrow that some will face,
For the things that they could have done,
To help the people that they had loved.
When all had lived as one,