The palette of heaven

How did the sky color itself in blood today!
Look there in west, its orange,crimson and other ruddy ways.


One could none but wonder at this palette of heaven,
Whites in bunch, blue in abundance and red sprinkled uneven.


That crown of king shines crimson red,
And follows its procession behind, bathed in white drape.


Glorious is the beautiful sprawl of orange flavor up there,
one could not help but gaze at those shaded bundle of uneven clouds,
shaded in red glare.

To Him!

And this is another Sunrise,
Not yet the morning bright.


The darkness of night  defeated,
But darkness of dreams stays bright.


There perhaps is no meaning of this day-birth today,
There had been no meaning since the Time had had its sway.


To kill Time, I pen my words,
But, to kill the Self, no sword has been cast yet.


For only when this constricted self departs,
Will there be the birth of Universal Man.

The hazy grate of a morning

The hazy grate of a morning, churning out brightness, through wads of  fragmented clouds, accompanied by cool and moist breeze that flows through a gaunt figure, lying on a four legged steel frame. The figure
doesn't appear to move much, lost amidst its acts. What acts? There is no semblance of movement, but there is no quietude either.

It appears to be lost in oblivion, with shapes passing through it. Though lethargic, its in motion, answering questions put across it, fighting the urge, the compulsion, and the compunction , all together in a moment.

In that class

"Cold war, though not as destructive as the pernicious world war II , perpetrated an unprecedented race for weapons and covert acts of destruction by individual nations, in particular Soviets ."

While madam, wallowed in those historical facts, I wallowed in the sight that presented itself from across the grills of window. A branch of mango tree, with its greyed leaves, swayed in the gentle breeze. The breeze that caressed my face draped in sweat beads,twinkling. The breeze that carried with itself the faint cadence of a genset working far away.

An anger

 Why is it that a person must be an achiever to prove himself? Why shall I be defined by what I have achieved? Is it all worth  it? What have the achievers done so different for the mankind?

I am just a boy willing to live merrily , with peace in this world. Why should I prove my presence with an achievement? Why should I have a goal in order to portray myself as a worthy being?  What shall be my worth anyway? My worth isn’t more than  216ft. cube of  land. Till that day arrives can’t this world allow my soul to roam about in hope and peace and hearth?