What can a rock but do

I have burnt a few bridges,
And lost a quarter of my song,
The beginnings I can still see,
But I can see not what went wrong.
I always had a song to sing,
Today I fumble a bit too much,
Though memories still haunt me,
I have lied a tad too much.

There be a strength in pain,
But to suffer is silence is my wont,
For what can a rock do, but stand,
And remember all the bridges burnt.
One of them was my ticket to heaven,
All I have left is but doors to devils hall.

The white elephant

My literal friend and me went to the zoo. I was excited to take him around as he was unfamiliar with wild animals. He had lived all his life in a concrete jungle.

Now my friend is a very intelligent person. He ideates and innovates. And most of what I have seen him convinces me that he is a genius. Walking along in the zoo, his insights on the animals were new to me. His approach was totally different to the hackneyed ways I looked at things. My familiarity had coloured my eyes. With his insights, I was enjoying the trip. While I was bored in my previous trips, this trip had me questioning of all that I was missing, looking at the familiar.

At the safari, looking at the elephant, my friend exclaims with joy, 'Elephants are white!'. I smile condescendingly. I tell him, 'That's an albino.'. But he wouldn't listen. For him elephants were white, for that was what he saw. I tried to explain but sometimes my friend gets lost in his own mind. We moved on to tales of how animal greetings tend to be more southern than us.

Fast forward to a few months. My genius friend used a white elephant as a logo for his new company. He tells me that the albino represents how in a sea of black elephants, his company is different. I am happy that this was just the logo.

What worries me the most is the difference with which animals greet each other. When did in the evolutionary biology did we move towards the north? Not that I am complaining.

Names

I could always forget the pain,
For then what would be my love be worth.
For though pain be not what I seek,
Where else would I learn to love?
Many be joys of life,
But when two hearts feel the same,
Like the rhythm of two hearts,
The song be different than the din.
Hearts though be cleaved by names,
And there be none to tell all,
But a name is not what it yearns,
Love grows fine in shadows.
That what is it's may not seem,
But in stolen dreams it lie,
Though it may never touch a kiss,
Silence some times is good enough.

Spark

I have a small spark within,
Let me burn out.
For it is in the flame to burn,
And in my heart to be consumed.

Go thither from me,
Lest I burn you too.
And my eternity with me,
My life mine to rue.

My paths are set in stone,
And quiet I will go,
I will leave no mark,
And nary a tune slow.

It is a slow march,
And little do I care,
For there is a madness to me,
This I will never share.

कभी कभी

कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
चल लेगा कितनी राह तू युहीं अकेले,
कभी डरता हूँ, कभी सहमता हूँ,
पर फिर चल लेता हूँ मैं युहीं अकेले।
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
अभी कितनी बची है पैमाने मैं,
जब तलक छलके नहीं मैखाने में,
युहीं दो घूँट पी लेता हूँ अकेले में।
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
कितनी तसल्ली है यूँ जीने में।
हमारे पास युहीं कुछ नग्मे हैं,
युहीं गुनगुना लेते हम अकेले में।
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
कितनी जान बाकी है इस अकेले मैं,
जान तो हमारी कहीं और बसी है,
युहीं याद कर लेते साँसों को,
हम अपने अकेलेपन में।

A flower

The beauty of a flower be not in a colour,
For colours do fade by the night.
Nor is beauty in the heady fragrance,
For by day it is despoiled.
The beauty of a flower not be in thorns,
For where hath beauty lain without poison.
Beauty changes not,
Though flower be in a wreath,
Or at the feet of gods.
A flower may mean a lot
To myriad people of myriad hues.
Where there is love,
There always is a memory,
Of the flower when it buds.
To a life in memoriam,
My flower is in my heart.

The songless bard

This is a path you have walked upon,
I can follow your footprints,
Though I cannot see you afar,
I will follow you through the mist.
I hope not of meeting you,
But I know you are somewhere near,
For all that beggars may choose,
They may never choose their fear.

The wisps tell me of your passing,
They mock me, for I follow,
But another story, to me, is unknown.
I trace my steps to where you are gone.

I am not a poet or a bard,
I may only be a mirror shard,
For when, which looks unto me is gone,
What am I but a songless bard.