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Quite A Habit....
Here comes the morning;
Blue sky, lush grass, dew drops
Yet thee not beholding my eyes;
Here comes the noon;
When the sun starts setting
When the clouds come flying
She would reach out to me
The life said
C K Rawat
Last night I fell asleep watching the moon from my bedroom window
I imagined that you were watching it too
And for that moment
Sleep, let me sleep, for I am sick of care;
Sleep, let me sleep, for my pain wearies me.
Shut out the light; thicken the heavy air
With drowsy incense; let a distant stream
XII. On the same.
I did but prompt the age to quit their cloggs
By the known rules of antient libertie,
We stood among the boats and nets . . .
We marked the risen moon
Walk swaying o'er the trembling seas
As one sways in a swoon;
Where and what is silence ?
In the stillness of nature,
In the dark night with the glowing moon,
In the cold grave,
I see a dysfunctional future
Wailing in hunger. Many tongues scrabbling for a single bone
Living corpses pile the street.
I hear soothsayers boast in their ignorance and claim a stolen future
In The Bayou
Lazy and slow, through the snags and trees
Move the sluggish currents, half asleep;
Around and between the cypress knees,
Like black, slow snakes the dark tides creep-
Great White Buffalo
I am at a crossroads.
Surrounded with people, yet alone.
Ambiguous and confused, for sure.
Not clear about my future,
Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
Nothing mattered or had a name:
A Song In The Desert
Friend, thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it,
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive, shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?
An Eastern Ballad
I speak of love that comes to mind:
The moon is faithful, although blind;
She moves in thought she cannot speak.
Perfect care has made her bleak.
I looked up the sky
and I saw the sadness of the moon
garzing at the cloud crying to give
light to its lover and shield away
"Blessed be the English and all their ways and works.
Cursed be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by,
The Sea Wind
I am a pool in a peaceful place,
I greet the great sky face to face,
I know the stars and the stately moon
And the wind that runs with rippling shoon-
Clown In The Moon
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
Have You Forgotten?
Have you forgotten how one Summer night
We wandered forth together with the moon,
While warm winds hummed to us a sleepy tune?
Have you forgotten how you praised both light
A Hand Axe
I know not a hand axe,
Cathartic is my poetry and rhyme.
I pen in the darkness,
when my sun sets in the east.
I'd be the sun in your moon,
A fire burning in your skies.
Layers of white and orange tune
In petals of flowers yet to bloom.
THAT HE SANG AT THE COUNCIL ROCK WHEN HE DANCED ON SHERE KHAN'S HIDE
The Song of Mowgli-I, Mowgli, am singing. Let
the jungle listen to the things I have done.
But see! . . . the body does not sink;
It rides upon the tide
(A starbeam on the dagger's haft),
With staring eyes and wide . . .
The old man looking out from the unclad window of his tiny hut,
He grinned his teeth and smile as the night greets his wrinkled face with it's crimson tide of a beautiful grim from a maiden moonlight.
To him; Oh! Age how often you come,
I Wish I Could
I wish I could Get you,
I don't know how much this heart wants you all the time,
Feel Your Presence Everywhere,Where you are not there,
Always think to See you Again with that Shiny little Rain,
The heart listen to noises,
Desires that blossom like a flower.
Painting red my garden of roses,
Shades with green, the perfect cover.
Auguries Of Innocence
To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
Love - The Symbolic Soul
Love is a journey, only few dispatch it,
Not all can, the dream in life who loves,
Although millions of promises created.
It's fragile like a narrow glass, easily smart,
The Desire To Paint
Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is torn with this desire.
I burn to paint a certain woman who has appeared to me so rarely, and so swiftly fled away, like some beautiful, regrettable thing the traveller must leave behind him in the night. It is already long since I saw her.
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful: she is overpowering. The colour black preponderates in her; all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound.
Her eyes are two caverns where mystery vaguely stirs and gleams; her glance illuminates like a ray of light; it is an explosion in the darkness.