I’m awake, woken by a memory sweet, 
A memory that begs of me to greet, 
Greet the death of a slumber, no dream; 
No thoughts recurring, wet soil, no stream..

A Poem for my Beloved Sister


Once born, the chain’s holding us to Fate,

Reasons for which, get to barely be told;

At times is achieved, though slightly late,

What we had deemed improbable to unfold.


Delude to your fullest, O Humblest Human Fear!

Delude the best surviving, of the Human soil:

To a sailing boat, when the shore is most near,

You strike with all might, to defeat the dragging toil.


And strike you must, in your urge to fake:

We saw the shore, but a mirage, no more!…

Till again the boat a-sailing, weary of mistake,

And strike you will, closest to the shore!


The sailor, though struck, but averse to yield

To a hopeless dream, a budding nightmare.

The warrior’s best home is the battlefield,

As Victory to the stubborn, that insists on staying there. 


A Brief History of BLACK

What does a person do, when they have no pen, no ink for a pen, no paper for a pencil, no paint, no canvas, no palette, but only their thoughts floating in vacuums in the head..!? A person with her wild imagination, placed in the naked wild, and then, doesn’t even know where she is!

Right now, she is (supposed to be) hurting herself, bleeding the bloody red, slit opened by the shining steel. The red is her paint, herself being both the muse and the canvas. But she is not hurt. Her failure succeeds her, and she succeeds at all failure of life-attempts. Everything takes on a life of it’s own, except her own little self. And when she forgets how it is like to ‘be’, they start losing memory on ‘what to be’; and thus the Red, rather than granting her some hope for life, takes some more away from her.

My canvas for now, is all black, and so is my paint. But that is the only canvas, and this is the only paint I have. Yet, I need to paint. I need to see for myself, how Black looks against the Black(er). Blackness has never rendered me blank, but given me more space. It’s not always the same, for even Black has its tones, though varying minutely, and thus the variations not always being visible to the nakedness of the eye. But then again, is it naked enough to attract whatever it chooses to gaze at?

Or maybe not. For the Black of the eye hidden behind the veil of this nakedness, manages to identify the tonal differences of the Black without. The Naked is so tastelessly plastic, so colourlessly transparent, that this Black pierces through it and looks right across!  

Mightier than the Sword

A voice raised, amidst all troubled sighs,

That reached all humans, reached the skies.


Not deservingly so, she was victimized,

By those, the infernal powers have hypnotized.


Took a bullet in the head, and still she survives;

A living example, to our misdirected lives.



“It should NOT have happened,” is what you say,

But a stand for true freedom always has a price to pay.


In a very real world of beasts, rights need to be boldly earned;

In a Land of the supposed ‘Pure’, lessons taught, to be learned.


How did the sword become much mightier than the pen?

Yes we regressed to lowest beings, but how, and when?!


So many questions you throw, about the existence of God;

So many forces at work, to contrive the retort, into fraud!



So many past voices, silenced by the beastly sword;

Let this, a fateful survivor, be one sign to you by the Lord.