The magic of Silence

The magic of silence

Is a soundless space

That lures us to hear

The unspoken word.

The sound of silence

Reverberates to sow

A seed of a new thought

Which grows from

The womb of the

Magic of silence

The quality of silence

Is potent with meaning

Bringing an avalanche

Of queries awaiting

Making magical

The moment of silence.

Happy New year.

Wondrous moments

no thought for tomorrow, 

blinded time flies 

unrecognizable the next 

flick of time, 

the potent hours 

hankering glory.

Your children may be settled

with some problems you fear 

but they still need you 

just for loving 

you each year. 

You may not see sense 

in each year passing by

but God gives life to find 

a purpose for us to survive. 

You got to help yourself 

and keep wisely employed 

as some day they might 

use your wisdom, 

you might be the reason 

for them to survive. 

No time to cry. Death of 'Spark'11thAp2011

This morning seems
so long away
The polished floor
staring at me.
The cage is empty
But the monitor gapes
muted sorrow
of the digital world
takes me away
to be near.
The breakfast awaits
the tears on the plate
for it's noon already
horns blare startling
the present reverie
past washed in the sink
gloved for the day
chariot moves on
so close,so far
Yet another day!
For there's
no time to cry.

Eternity.

Right or wrong,

the lines blur 

Into my grey cells, 

Annilation!! 

Is that possible 

with constant change 

of matter and mind 

into eternity. 

Man's greatness 

Based on recognition, 

all else is anonimity, 

praying, reinventing 

the past 

making us eternily. 

9th April 2005

All is quiet, all is bright.

Hark, hark, the birds are back

in coats of different plumes 

chirping, squacking, humming 

calling to their mates. 

The labour class is passing by

singing a lilting mood.

All is quiet, all is bright 

in the town nearby. 

The passers are walking by

in their silence and songs

their mobiles fixed in their ears 

touching an illusive world. 

The trees and buildings stand 

witness to the scene 

wondering at this caravan 

not understanding this piture

of wonderland. 

Hark, hark the gypsies are

back again with their 

pots and pans, 

seeking a shady grove to rest 

their tired backs. 

Others follow in their wake 

leading the camels slowly

their back packs fully loaded 

while others follow slowly. 

The women under the 

ample tree preparing for 

the meal, while men are 

tending to the babies. 

All is quiet, all is bright, 

till the sun sets in the west, 

it's sleeping time by now 

the world slumbers 

at peace and rest. 

Song sung blue.

Song sung blue.

Bridge the loneliness

with words and actions, 

But the tears fall

sniveling down the cheeks, children ask questions deep.

Is it life we love or 

is it them? 

Difficult a question 

that I know having them

nine months more. 

The tears come

quick and fast 

no answer to that 

have for them, alas! 

I take my thoughts 

to bed at night, 

mulling over the past 

and present. 

From where does 

the yawning come, 

that gap of unanswerable 

queries? 

Talking to them I lie 

with a wet pillow 

under my eyes. 

Every now and then 

the question stares 

me in the face. 

Darkness hears 

the soundless songs

of sadness 

embedded in my soul. 

For I cry 

when I've hurt 

my child the most. 

Happy Mundane.