No more I want to grow old

No more,

I want to grow old.



Again I want,

To poise my mom’s finger,

And walk with her

And trample the pebbles of the road.

I want the melody of her bangles when she moves with me.

I want to mouth her nipple when she lulls me.

But no more,

I want to grow old.

Growing old is to die out,

From the maze of unnamed love.

you

Yes, you do perch on my heart
But a fear-you will fly away soon
penetrates the heart,

Nyx

To lovers,
Nyx rains her blaze,
That is black not white.
As Nyx comes down
The souls of lovers
irradiate with mirth and joy.

River

I behold the river,
Of colorless water.
Wherein the bleak firmaments are swimming.
With them,the ruddy sun is playing hide- and- seek.

Oh! Solitary

Oh! Solitary
Why are you barging in my home?
A home;
where like a restless soul,
I wander to and fro at the green land of my past.

Oh! Solitary,
You have made my all the toys rusted.
My Kites, my balls and the bat all are tangled with the cobwebs.
Now you don’t permit me,
To poise my bat again
And to saturate our narrow street ;
With the howls of laughter and the chaos of shouts with friends.
But this street now seems sleeping since an eon.
Oh! Solitary…

My Daily Walks

The classes over,
I step outside my college
to take a walk home.
Right away, I am enveloped
by a car-polluted fog.
I cross the street
to the opposite side
that will lead me on.

But the acrid exhaust smoke
does not leave me alone!
After a number of "Ah-choo's!"
I find myself in close vicinity
of a Chowk, with all its
usual hassle and bustle,
and dazzling colors.

Soon I'm passing by a cheap hotel
and an old wooden bench
where some Urdu poets
gather daily
to crunch on Samosa,
to exchange their poems
and to gossip... for hours.

I do not linger with them,
for my wish of the moment is
to reach the coziness of my home.
And there it is, my house,
with its cheerful yellow facade!
"There's no place like home!"

Indeed. But in days ahead,
I'll be taking the same route
in both directions,
studying its street life
and thinking over some new lines
of my future poems.

Few Smudges

Few unvarnished smudges of your time-
have placed on the canvas of my reminiscences.
These smudges sketch the scenery of you with mine.

The smudges tell a tale of our wanderings.
Wanderings at the streets and roads
those were leading us to the temples and the mosques.

Few paths took us to the monuments
Those were built for the sake of love like the Taj.
But they were neglected as a dead land of the dead.

I still want the smudges unwashed,
That makes our undead past alive.