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.

Where was i

Where was I,
When life took another turn,
Looking far into the road,
Or just to the few steps behind.
Where was I,
When life was calling out,
Staccato lies and tantrums,
Anger, blame and doldrums.
Where was I,
When life took all away,
Not fighting till the end was near,
Of the pain too hard to bear,
Where was I,
When my love was taken,
Not by my steps, nor by my hands,
Nor on my waters, nor on my sands.

Wish

Wish I were a snowflake,
To melt slow at your feet.
To be water with you,
And flow quietly into the street.

Together

Little magic in me,
All of it off you.
Not as if we are different,
Just a matter of who's with you.
In waking, different to be,
In dreams together.
Magic is not off one,
But love is in dreaming together.

The stolen poem

A poet may live through,
That his words are only heard,
In the confines of his own.
Little can he gain in words,
For the words are his heart,
And her it was spoken to
Never struck a chord.

And then, another comes along,
To steal those words of old,
A little stop here, a word there,
In the theatre of life,
The game always is for the showman.

Little words are twisted,
The feelings laid bare,
For that, which was a beauty,
Is now crass enough to share.
Them that never got the words,
Now can smile,
For the song is now gaudy enough,
To engage the mortal soul awhile.
The colors are washed out,
The smell serene nomore,
The words taste insipid,
The beauty worn out.

For the mortal, beauty is not
The pain in the heart,
But for words that spell their name.
For the poet, beauty is not
The understanding of all,
But for the heart and nary a game.

But the poet turns,
Without a smile or tear,
His story is stolen,
As was his heart.