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Posts Tagged ‘past’

From here the mountain of dream ends,
And the ocean of the infinity invites.
The birds chirping and hustles of the oak,
Echoes a known crowd, experiences.
With a thousand mutiny in mind
There are enough miles in this journey,
Of love, lust, grief and undying zeal
To add more and more, to go on and on.
 
A moment transforms all meaning.
 
Like a tattered cloth I shall drop now,
The thoughts, the dreams so dear
In sand dunes of the deserted summer.
These people are now my living spirit,
Their needs are my colossal columns,
To strengthen them assures a roof.
The famine in those faces now impel
To conquer the dream of past ages.
 
A moment transforms all meaning.

Hermit to hermit will pass on my baton
Of love and lead the unseen kiln in storm.
Like life, death too has a meaning unturned,
Our pebbles and stones do not make
Castles of eternity, or save us in grave.
Feed the sunken lips of someone, someday
Under scorching sun or cold winter moon.
Then our soul would not wander ever
As a moment transforms all meaning.

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An evening in tune with my mood,
All breaths in chorus and now greet
The release from a world so rude.
Each verse I write like as it is the last,
And share my soul and my meat.

From here there is just a prayer for all
To live and love, to dream is so true
Of all beating hearts and enthral
The ripples of a rumoured heart.

From here as I move and mingle
Among droplets on cold green grass,
This thought shall find its route
And wishes like lillies shall swing
Among lives resting in the past.

When it rains I will not see tears
Nor shall melt ever under the Sun
But fly as much in the blue sky
And reach the days I faintly remember.
Someday, somewhere when we meet
And look for long at our tired feet
Let conscience discover the journey.

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From here when I see acres of green grass
With bushes of mulberry mounting,
Few white swans and monuments of brass
In the wilderness are now haunting.
I will not forget nor forgive,
The voices in mutiny or muttering
When my yields are burnt in silence.

Why write if my ink is not my blood
And my thought is not of this age?
My verse will not be mine if feelings flood
Not with memories of the crimson days.
For each battle we fought and finished
I will not forget nor forgive,
Brutal lives in the burrows so tarnished.

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When we last met in the temple town,
Over the unused rocks of craftsmen,
There were deities and precinct power.
There were lions roaring on the shore.

Remember the green grass we walked along
To find the smallest joy in the country song.
Remember the priest who joined our hands
To join our souls forever and to journey,
Through the greenness of grass and gluttony.

In these visions of the vermillion past,
My soul will not rest or reduce,
Nor will it nurture or again remember
The decadence of faith or ever cast
The mutiny of monuments that seduce.

I am the soul so will be free and move
From the false applauds and toyed glory.
And will not be lazy or rest in love,
Nor toil among all that will be history.
In a dream at least I found the meaning
Of life, freedom and paradise sublime.

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