Monday, November 5, 2007
by Abhinav
Like the hearts of seasoned wanderers
That know many sweet and sordid tales,
One seeks the arrival of rain-bearers -
Agog raconteurs asail upon fiery gales.
Like the silent mark of changing seasons,
Tiny beads of sweat course the land of skin.
Other heralds, alas, have learnt louder lessons;
A yellow-goggled cuckoo makes a noisy din.
Like a shadow across a day’s decline,
The rain-clouds creep across the land.
Old wizened winds hasten - a sure sign,
And rains and lightning - a sonorous band.
Like a dream heavy upon my eyes,
The sweet scent of the first rains rests.
On the ledge, the weary papiha cries,
And the cuckoo does sheer jests.
Like eyes that know tears more than sight,
The sky does not stop for a very long time.
Once and again, paper-boats pass in plight,
As a muddy rill flows and grows into its prime.
Like a heart that does not know its reasons,
That lives life as if living a passing treason,
Over the fetters of time, I watch the illusions
And the drops that bide their time this season.
Like languid monsoon nights of yore,
The strains of Des, Malkauns and Malhar
Open up the melodies of unwritten lore,
And seek the longing that lies afar.
Like too much pleasure that is pain,
The last notes dissolve into tears.
Over the breeze, lilts a dream again;
And the sweet song of sleep nears.
Posted in:
Poetry,
Self
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A withering leaf of pale autumn
Is a promise of mirthful spring,
As a prayer sweet and solemn
Does joyous occasion bring.
The wide, wile wings of dark
Bode the dawn of pristine light,
As a distressed lamp does mark
The end of a cruel, fearful night.
The seed that sees a flower wilt
Knows how to send a spur aloft.
The wick that watches wax melt
Seeks to spread a radiance soft.
A mighty river is a little brook
That must grow to reach the sea.
A star is time’s dream that took
Night’s dark deathly refuge to be.
Winds that speak to mountains
Murmur also to lesser leaves.
Rains that visit the brightest lanes
Also pour upon the humblest eaves.
Birds must come home to nest
After soaring the boundless sky.
All flesh must seek eternal rest
When the soul wishes to fly.
Posted in:
Poetry,
Self
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In life does everyone’s love be;
Beyond death my dear,
I shall love thee…
To conjure separation!
That would be blasphemy,
Having stolen thee
From the lines of destiny.
In life does everyone’s love be;
Beyond death my dear,
I shall love thee...
Posted in:
Poetry,
Self
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No sooner will thee ingress my eyes, than I shall rest their guards;
That neither me to other minstrels, nor thee to other bards.
In this whirlwind of love, borne two trifles to greater heights;
When one meets the other, he in time’s opportunity delights.
‘Lo! Here the gardener comes,’ quiver buds by an anxious care;
Then pluck every gay flower, to adorn thy blackest hair.
So it is with water, it shuns the peaks and seeks the plains;
That the higher must thirst, and the lesser make draughty gains.
All that is done is your doing, my will hath no hand;
If my hand wills at all a deed, ‘tis your doing while I stand.
Aye fellow, feast on orts, and of cold waters drink;
And to the sight of others’ ledgers, do not fell think.
Naught in me is mine, aught is Thine;
To return Thee what is Thine is no loss of mine.
Content are all in this world, they eat and sleep;
Why then is Kabir awake, what malaise contrists so deep?
Posted in:
Poetry,
Self
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