Time makes a call
Spring’s verdure slowly ebbed
before summer’s breath snuffed
It out; Time’s footfall tip-toed
a message – “Life’s curves are
hazier than the lines in your palm;
Strain not the brow on what’s in store,
brace up to weather the storm;
Storms leave fading scars on plains;
The Banyan is ruddy on its shore,
knows not where it will spread.
Its bleached branches beyond the seed;
Hearts stagger on jagged strains,
a hopeless hunt for a green moor.
Then encased in thorny silence.”
When the destined place of arrival closes in
a leaf of memory throbs with the long
memento of landmarks reached and missed.
Let missed calls die out in the log.
Regrets ever remain in unused folders,
pop up to be trashed into the bog;
Monsoon flies buzzing around the bulb.
Up on the winding path skirt the shrubs,
breathe the fragrance of fresh blossoms;
Things lost or denied count less than
trees flitting across the train’s window.
Spinning on its thumb the earth has seen
the revolving ends of despair and hope.
On the orb of this rolling circus?
The day is done
A vulture winging high in the sky
bristles at the faintest smell of rot,
swoops down in swift, hungry arc.
It lives by instinct, its catch of the day.
Then soars, unstrung by care or compunction.
Decibel levels rip open the roof
betraying more rant than reason
boxed into TV screens on fault lines
that had torn apart seven decades.
A sweeping grab of sound bites for the day,
then retire for the night with pockets lined.
They live by instinct, unstrung by none.
A sudden diet of MSP for kharif
leaves voices irascible, the farmer stuck
where he started his journey.
Good or bad is a whistle blown in the wind.
He too has been manacled in a blind alley.
A minor girl lies torn, eyes frozen in shock,
at the twilight blurred in perversity!
The vulture circles so high up in the sky,
trusts only its instincts to smell the rot.