Thursday, March 17, 2011
Remembrance of bygone days
have the smell of dusk-rain
the smell of sun-washed sea-waves
the summer sun that wept red
behind the tattered purple hills
of ageless sorrows
hidden in the voice of their roots
when I left my woman
and walked the streets
alone at twenty.
A helpless old man
lay sprawled beside the water-front
with twenty bullet holes in his body.
The spell-bound sky arched westwards
with cool early storm-clouds
somewhat like the day
clouds of protest gathered in my hair.
that was the day I came across I
and was christened protector of the weak
in his inn.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
I can only rest in sinful silence.
By this I mean silence in the midst of sound,
because all of us were born in sound-silence.
The movement we created in our mother’s womb did create some sound,
and like a star orbiting in space which creates sound,
we too created our first and most meaningful music in our mother’s womb.
So, friends, do not undermine yourself, as you are no less a Beethoven
than he himself.
The organized movement of your mother – her heartbeat, her blood circulation,
was an orchestra to help you create your best soulful music.
And when your mother held her new-born baby
in her arms, her smile was the best award you could have got.