You

First breath of the day,
the first rays of dawn,
first drops of rain after
a scorching summer,
the first snow, and
it's first shiver...
The first full moon,
and its placid image
in the silent pond..
The first few leaves
soft as velvet, their
fractal veins 'n the
fragrance of spring..
The first festival, and
its first harvest,
the first folklore...
The first guest Ganesha
and the divine Shakti,
the seed of all seeds.
I need not think,
of all these, no...
none of them,
if I think,
of you, only
you !


(inspired by the Euphoria song 'Tum')

500 days

We live at 500 yards
but we meet on 500 days,
it's a game of chance,
but reeks of connivance.
Both of us have questions,
those are best if they
remain just questions,like
asking "How did it happen?"
at somebody's funeral.
I blabber, you prattle,
pretenses of cordiality,
before I get an urge,
to end this. End this, like
a quick festival greeting,
wished every 500 days.

For whom the bell tolls

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

-- John Donne

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

-- Pablo Neruda

A virus call

Our paths often coincide,
though I pray otherwise,
we cross, passing askances,
unintentionally intentional,
pretending to be strangers;
I look at banyan's boughs,
try to spot sparrow nests,
you gaze at the ground,
count same-size pebbles.
Things would be different,
with an unsent message,
or an unspoken word.
What would they be,
I can't imagine,
I don't wish to.

If only I could truncate
the seconds that mattered
or the minutes I cling to,
like the censored tapes.
Or at least I could erase
those parts of memory,
like old logs of virus scans.
Let a virus infect our brains
and eat away that data,
so that whenever again,
our paths coincide, we
save us the pretense,
to say the least.