While you are there somewhere

While you are there somewhere and I wait here

World sees another day of hope and despair

Thought of the summer that came and went

The first day of school and my total reluctance

Those teachers who thought I was a queer

While you believed I am just bored

Yes I have always been aloof and strange

Yet every day your hopes made me a simple man

While you are there somewhere and I wait here

World sees another day of hope and despair

The library of thousand books we built together

Has never let me feel alone again

While friends betrayed every now and then

You kept saying- just give, don’t demand

In all those books, I always found you in the end

Though in time there will be neither you nor I

Within the books our world shall remain

While you are there somewhere and I wait here

World sees another day of hope and despair

One day you said to me- time is the trick

And many things in this world to believe in

But let hate and violence not be one of them

We will meet for time shall come a circle again

Unconditional love, purity of man

Have to tell you then I didn’t fail

Lived by your lessons, shall do it again

While you are there somewhere and I wait here

World sees another day of hope and despair

(Painting- Woman with a Parasol : Madame Monet and Her Son by Claude Monet, 1875)

Confounding states stuck in circles

The one who just died and the one who woke up suddenly

Talked all through night incessantly of karma and beauty

And the morning came and there was no motion of sanctity

What got preserved was ultimately reserved for the perplexity

As they went their ways and collided after one roundabout

Thought they met in a dream or that night from another journey

All came a full circle when one hundred years went by

As they met again at the roundabout and thought they had met before

What was seen was never there and all mad men were left with a stare

Every day they wake up to the day before and the one after

Caught between certainties and randomness of their being

Squeezed between timeless memories and progressive dreams

What is there when there is nothing in all the somethings

And in the frailty of simple and implausibility of complex

Those walk on the tightrope or that swim in the infinite green sea

Did they find the value of thoughts and caterings to emotions?

Or maybe all were just caricatures drawn on sands and washed perpetually

Between the crisis of identities and confusions of meanings

Those obscure moments of rain and sun on the glass pane

In all the shouts of dead silence and gambles of centuries

Pleadings of regeneration and tumultuous celebrations of vague

In all the mitigations of music and abstractions of words

Loss of all those paradigms that were never there or fair

Illusions of realities meshed in between here and there

When did we interfere when we were never somewhere

Unsure if there was a beginning and suspicious if there is an end

But then what’s within is what we miss everyday and everywhere

In our countless discussions and numerous fleeting emotions

Where is that consciousness that will wake us eventually

And put it to rest all ideas of God and Man

Why are we stuck when there have been and there will be

Eternal revolutions of time and convoluted visions in sunshine

Sometimes it so happens

                                                          
Sometimes it so happens
that I grow weary of all desires and all disappointments
and get tired of all fears and all fancies

Sometimes it so happens
that I can't listen anymore to all the endless talking
and get exhausted with all modernization and all competition

Sometimes it so happens
that I lose sense of man and all his incomplete solutions
and have no track of all mental stimulation and all creative propositions

Sometimes it so happens
that there is little left in man, woman and all other dualities
and hardly any discoveries in enigmas of relationships and all other ecstasies

Sometimes it so happens
that there is not much in all philosophies and all paradoxes
and in drawing those acute observations and finite conclusions

Sometimes it so happens
there is nothing to find in grand revolutions and petty commercialization
and in lofty ideas of purposes and self proclaimed patriotism

Sometimes it so happens
that I have no spiritual connotations and moral obligations
and no meanings in my poems, like this one

Sometimes it so happens
that I write nothing but except may be
and there is no pen or paper but only thoughts afloat

Sometimes it so happens
that I just sit in this cafe and look at the rain
and wonder if all leaves will get drenched or some shall remain

Sometimes it so happens
that's just my life is all about
and it doesn't matter much to me

(Image- Cafe terrace at night by Van Gogh)