Posts Tagged ‘Biswajit Dash’

The contours of our memories so much seek,
So much like whisper come out in blank silence.
Here are the butterflies chasing the wild swan,
Here comes the song from love’s forgotten peak.
If death be like a blanket that hides the world
Before our eyes and smell of that sweet petrichor;
There is this soul in you that will stand like cold
White, snow-dipped mountain in the darkness.

Yes, here’s the home, and that luminous page of life;
Come not draped in ignorance but with your story.
Soul to soul will whisper the same surrendered strife.
The eyes will get heavier with the tear than the being
When it drops, and waves you see in air around sing,
Everything leaves to meet everything we know in life.

Here’s the home, here’s that flame we forever seek.
Come soon, before I fly again to that love’s peak.


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The swans through leaves of this lotus lake
Sail to touch the moon in crystal cold water.
Child to child will ask what merry to make;
What flowers bloom in this daunted barter?
With reason we refute the satin we long sold,
The fabric of faith tossed in grey and gold.

Here comes the breeze, here lives the saint,
Among these fluttering wings that trust
The cold wind will make its hope sail more.
Why not alone tread these paths bent?
Why not jostle the breaths in the tour?
Why not clap among the crowd we know
By silver coated realms of the moon’s glow?

Among shadows there will be a vision burst
Into flecks of life on the distant divine shore.
When we meet will not talk the journey;
But each moment that we lived forever.
Time will seek answers that it knows for long
With filled words that hymn ‘love is our song’.

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The Slave:

Petals of rose dipped in scarlet, tossed by the wind
And frozen by the fond memories of such youth
That falters not with flickering faces or the truth
And doesn’t make a dark heart or numbered mind.
And there stands the pillar, there flows the river,
There you see a thousand mutiny now question.
Who said these clouds will settle on a mountain top?
Who said these ocean won’t touch the sky so blue?
With time’s drape all things utterly change to tune;
The Sun won’t die, the maddening sea nor the moon,
But all that we feel, we know, shall be washed soon.
What profit my verse will do to this crowded sea,
If not touch every soul, and not stand like a tree?

The Master:
No master will ever free his slave, nor will inspire;
But make them worthy enough to dream freedom.
No master will give enough bread to live forever;
But memories that will make you dream your home.
No master ever will pamper your hectored hymns;
But will leave you with enough tales of loved dreams.

The Slave:
I now know why my kind is like a nomad not nursed,
No names, no lineage, but a creed so much cursed.
Will I be free, will I write ever for my rose with no fear;
‘Those petals dipped in scarlet, tossed by the wind’?

The Master:
What if I declare you free and give a baton to lead?
Your bondage is not of the being but of an old mind.
Go now, for the verse, or to the universe and feed
Every soul with love enough and true peace to find.

You are the slave and the master of your being;
You are the song so divine and one that you’d sing.

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It’s winter and there is cold breeze through the leaves
Hidden in the fog like a myth that will uncover soon;
and bells ringing on temples of ancient gods whom I know,
and hymns filled in the walls of my ear that pray the moon.
Does it all change? Does the face of innocence still glow?

There are flowers of the night still lying on my earth;
There are feathers that tossed in glory and filled the sky.
It’s not a tale, it’s not a night gone by and hours so slow;
A cult of colossal war hymn silenced by love and loss
That echoes between two mountains and like river flow
Into the ocean of life, to be born again to die and cross.

Between ignorance and ego all battles are fought forever;
Between the clever minds, the heart succumbs and shiver
with attempts to admire its own tale of honest moments.
There plays the violin by the sea side, there plays the flute;
There dance is frozen like an iceberg, and an artist paints
Like colours are eternal on this canvas of time together.

If a war can end with words, I will write in love more;
Than take shields of sorrow or settle on the shore.
My verse isn’t vast, but will fill the emptied soul of yours,
When your reason leaves you like a phoenix of course.

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Peace is not poured until we pass the prism
Of mind, filled with echoes of a ruined glory.
An old teacher with his tattered clothes and beard,
Romping in rugged, restless reasons of this world
Will not guide until there is music in his story.

And when it plays, it plays like an orchestra of love,
Of memories in muddled pages of one’s history.
There is a flute at distance so much in tune,
That can surrender my feelings that shiver and shove.
Turn over like an old leaf, a thought that doesn’t weigh more.
A parable of love, life and light sung in glory.
I have not lost, not lurched, not an old acre grown
In these years and the leaves that I crossed in tear.
Just a drop, a dazzle, the wind, a victory, a whisper,
All fill this emptied sepulchral loneliness of the moon.
A wish that I can see my men stand together.

I will come back again, I have the phoenix in me alive.
I will not count the memories, but more love to give.

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Until there is a wind that has touched
The sea, the oak, the leaves of a forest
So green with hues of spring or yellow
Of an autumn morning, you will not settle,
You will not succumb among pastoral hymns.
You will but fly beyond, for the light is life.
You are not heavy like our hearts, or tricks
Traverse you in torn down robes of past.  

It’s easy not to untangle your journey,
For you have travelled through history,
Through the meandering moon-lit stream
Of love, of hope, of despair and glory.
Wish my soul could join you and dream
Through the pages filled by your story,
And stand near the swans again for peace.
Like my masters say to pick you is to speak
To an unending sky that has enough air.
The feather so light, so untouched, unheard,
Can guide me to my stars and my prayer.

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Alone when I stand and see these pages
Of faces with sweat and surging brows
At the crossroad, in the crowd, in hedges
Of crimson cast sky and a brazen desire;
Shadow to shadow neither differs more
Nor instinct succumbs to serene pledges.
Why bother about the river that will flow?
Why stammer when the hymns are low?

Swan to swan will pass on the streak;
For sorrow is like a grounded freak,
At the crossroad, in the crowd, in hedges
Only apparitions and myths of Greek
Stand like a new Troy is about to break.
The shields are dead, the swords wrapped
Now in the creepers of cold memories.

A pasture so green, so greatly laid
Wih a blanket covered in burgeoning blue;
See the corns and grains in gold swaying
For long like hands of the old soulmate.
Not become timber nor dead like glue
That sticks lifeless lips, no hymn will wait.

Let the poets come and all words settle,
The verse is so old but lives forever.
Man to man will meet not in dark battle,
But with eyes of the eternal dreamer.
I am not away, not beside, not far,
Not God on the tower so white and tall,
But in you I reside, I am the dreamer.

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