Limitless

Winds of change . The wind blows ‘cross the mighty motherland, Made of hills, plains and sands. Traversed by the raging rivers, A land full of givers.   Givers of knowledge so vast, Harboring ships with their masts, Bearing any flags, Not knowing that they would turn ‘her’ riches to rags.   To shed the rags of bondage, Her children gave us the adage, “Fight for swaraj, our birthright”, And “No one can challenge satyagraha’s might.”   The times have been changing, But the winds have stopped blowing, Telling us that we have indeed progressed, But we also have transgressed.   Transgressed to such an extent, That we are now indifferent, To those who betray our “mother”, By saying, “Oh! It affects some other.”   We forget that we might be that some other person, And while the corrupt hold our “mother” for arson, And the debauchers roam around in glee, Our mother will never be free.   The winds of change shall blow once more,

Whose fault was it anyway?                                               Whose fault was it anyway? They said at a parley, To discuss the fate, Of the less fortunate. Anger surged on the outside, Of the fortunate sitting inside, Arguing over the issue, While saying, “please pass the tissue”. Tissue to daintily wipe, The mouth after devouring fruits so ripe, While not so far from this superficial grumble, Empty stomachs did rumble. Rumbling stomachs slept on the tracks so cold, “Help will come”, they were told, By the Lord! It did arrive, And eased them of the burden to survive.

Footprints Has anyone seen, Little footprints so keen, On the sandy shore, Where the wind blows galore. Inquisitive footprints that freely ambled, Near the lowly hut that was in shambles, Running along the shoreline, A pair of which were mine. Mine, or were they figments? Of imagination’s colorful pigments, Washed away by the waves that rushed, Memories, that got shushed. Shushed, but now awaking, Is that a cuckoo singing? I swear there is no change, In its melodious vocal range. Change I do observe, In the memories I now conserve, Gone are the happy footprints, Replaced by ambitious newspaper prints.     Prints bearing the works, Of those dining with fine forks, And silver-plated knives, While the ordinary crowd like bee hives. Hives of confines, Social and mental fake “I’m fine's", Strangling of fictional aspirations, By the grim factual realizations. How will justice reach the strangled? R

BLUR OF MOTION When the blur of motion, Will cease, Only the graveyard of suppressed emotion, Will be left to appease. At whom will you so hatefully scorn, When you realize all are forlorn, Shadows will henceforth exist, Where drizzled joy’s heavenly mist. Existence will be as empty as a dirge, With no soul left to purge, Of its sins, All that’s left will be pins. Pins of the forgotten “what if’s”, So foolishly trying to scour clean, All the past tiff’s, Trying to regain the fractured “has been” Fractured pieces of the invincible mind, Fallen from its Herculean might, Some left behind, In uncertainty’s darkest night. A night so dark and deep, A void so difficult to fill, Gently lulling into the deepest sleep, Even past the mighty mind’s will.