Many times I ask You...

My dear Soul

Many times I ask you- who are you, indeed?

Yesterday’s dream was of serenity and calmness

Today’s reality was of commotion and wilderness, you know

Yet even though when I was lost, you were still steady

That moment today when I tripped on the busy street

Was it because you had to stay and gaze the orange sky?

My dear Krishna

Many times I ask you- where are you, indeed?

Some children are dying of hunger, you know

Some men are still fighting over strips after a century

Yet you say you believe in humanity and not in its penury

That moment today when I saw the homeless man dying

Was it you who said that Karma is always in perpetuity?

My dear Music

Many times I ask you- how do you do it, indeed?

Cars shouted, trains whistled and that carcass from the street

Someone even fired a gun somewhere, you know

Yet you somehow found your way into my dull room

That moment today when I simply sat and watched the trees

Was it you who said that silence is my true beauty?

My dear Poem

Many times I ask you- why do you do it, indeed?

You felt what I feel, saw what I see, dreamed what I dream

Somehow, you even found an obscure rhythm, you know

Yet you remained in anonymity and perplexity

That moment today when I wrote you meaninglessly

Was it you who said that to mean is to simply be?

(Image- Boy with Pipe by Pablo Picasso)

The Man from hundred years ago

As this night moved towards dawn

And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

Every morning he walked on the streets of London
And thought of all the heartbreaks he stored within
Lovers and friends, all had betrayed
Some for money, others for pleasure
A clerk, he earned a little
Just enough for some bread and a bottle
Factories soared all around him
And tall buildings had gone taller

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

Sitting in the chair he felt the nausea
As he watched the men in his office

Wildly chasing the day around him
Is this the advent of a new man?
The kind who thinks, multiplies but not feel?
Or the man was and has been
The fly that swirled in the garden
Thrust into an indifferent cosmos

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

Evening came and he walked home

Climbed three floors and thought some more
Another day entirely insignificant
Was his living a point at all?
When Mother had long gone
And wife had deserted for a richer man
Even the birds that used to sit at the parapet
Had migrated to a happier land
What was there was nowhere
All around just desolation and despair

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

The night had fallen
And he had drank more than his usual
What was and is and shall be
Thought he who is and pledged not to be
This end is an end, better than the beginning
For what started only stagnated

The decision was made and not in haste

All that remained was the final play

As this night moved towards dawn
And I heard rain splattering on the window
I remembered that man from 100 years ago

In a moment’s worth he was at the terrace

Desires and difficulties all had disappeared

God and Devil had dissolved in his soul

And no questions now remained

Stuttering he finally reached and climbed the edge

The last two breaths were not a complete waste

For the cold wind had now wrapped his face

Startled and scared I woke up with a shriek

With a pounding heart and sweat covered face

What I could have brushed as a mere nightmare

Struck me with horror as I rushed to the mirror

A hundred years had just condensed

Face of the man or the man with the face

As the night had reached the dawn

And sun rays had pierced the window

I thought of myself in the present

Heaven and hell, joys and sorrows

Nights and days, springs and falls

This one beautiful life has it all!

(Painting- Wanderer above the sea of fog by Caspar David Friedrich, 1818)