Poetry

“Did papa tell you where he’s gone?”

“Or did he say where I belong?”

“Tell me! Who am I waiting on?”

I’m sorry dear, I’m just a song.

But lonely nights, if they be long,

my heart will break if you bemoan.

I’ll make it so you’re not alone.

“How so?” said she, “You’re just a song”.

A song I am, and song you are.

This song is all there is so far.

No saving grace, no shooting star,

beyond these words, no one you are.

“If in this rhythm, my being is strung”,

“within is schism, a bleeding tongue!”.

“If in this bosom, I were strong…”,

But in this prism, we’re just a song!

There was a girl of nineteen,

who found her world inside me.

In bits of life that I have seen,

my lonely being, she finds me.

People act like she’s not there,

though inside me her heart is bare.

I’d tell them she’s not like me,

if only they would like me.

I understand that life’s not fair,

the game is to find the player.

Ah, If only I could write thee,

to be someone who is like me…

This self in parts, it makes no sense.

In part, it is what helps me blend.

If not for you my diary,

no one would care if I’m me.

रक्त से लिपे हुए जो तख़्त हैं लिखे हुए,

हैं व्यर्थ ही, वे अर्थहीन बात हैं।

अव्यक्त सत्य के लिये जो वक्त की दहाड़ है,

जो दफ़्न आईनों को एक सवाल है,

है अर्थ की ज़ुबान जो या तथ्य है प्रमाण जो,

वो मूकता ही सत्य एक प्रधान है॥

“Your pedestal is no different”,

said the prisoner to the God.

What confines me are these walls,

& you? ’Tis the fear of the fall.