Upon a painting by Noopur Dogra

A Beggar

A Beggar’s Dream
I broke myself over a beggar’s dream;
On ragged clothes and imperfect eyes;
Indifferent to the world, to me and I
And when I found out every single way
To make every single wrong decision
I could have made,
I shamelessly felt ashamed to bring myself
Down to the ground where I can look at that beggar and his imperfect eyes;
Wearing ragged clothes; indifferent to the world and I;
And I broke myself over his dream.

If there was a story about him, I swear
I could have seen it written over his body.
He kept on scratching his ring finger as if
He is missing a part of his soul, maybe he was.
Maybe I was the only one who saw it
I am at his level now, am I not?
Only hugs he receives now is from his own self
During those winter nights when he has to crawl
And become almost meaningless, like a stone.

People keep on staring at me no…us, for being at that level
I feel like screaming at them –“Your eyes are as imperfect as mine.
Perfectly imperfect as mine.
You break yourself onto some dreams too.
Yours or somebody else’s.
And what difference is their between us? You have an iron leaving
Its scent on your clothes this morning, he tasted iron this morning
That was in that policeman’s hands. “

We sat and spoke then, after being equally bruised –
He spoke with much wisdom and an empty stomach.
I took him to a tea shop – the shopkeeper did not allow him in
So we took a couple of chairs outside. I saw him lean
On the chair – like a man he once was, or maybe still is.
I thought the sugar was less in the tea. He closed his eyes
After the first sip – I think he discovered his entire life there, again.

I could see his story – a photograph
Hidden clumsily between his half torn shirt
And his chest. I could imagine that photograph
Clutched in his hands as the only bond
That he had left with himself. For a moment only though
I understood how your entire world can exist inside
A crumpled piece of paper showing a
Blue eyed girl in a yellow skirt hugging her favorite teddy bear.

I saw a dream then, in his eyes.
Imperfect as the world and I.
A dream I need not put in words;
Only a fool would not know it in world.
You heard it when the old men spoke,
Or you whispered it as an evening joke.
That dream you find in the beggars sleep
Or in your eyes when strangers weep.

Upon Lost Belongings

Bend and gather the lose and the last
Of my belongings, as they shall,
Pass amid those rising masts
Those drift them afar and swell,
By the broken wind and word,
That stood gaping against the shore,
Treading upon the sands no more.

While my belongings break their customs,
And rise high and low, like dancing sails.
For once in their raising, lay unaccustomed
By their meandering and manners pale.
Pearls and pearls -measured in stooks.
Why their say be a languished truth?
Like bartered conceptions of the youth.

In the gathering the lost is lost,
Founding only in the memory, remains.
Yet I seem to carry the cost
Of the losing and it’s following claims.
They be set for a journey now.
The journey of mine, broken, ceased,
Bend to gather – belongings or peace?

Upon Wandering Thought

I have left a thought wandering,
In placid silence and reflections.
While the dust lays, timidly, gathering,
I seek pleasure among other creations,
That float and stir the peace within
And mellow with those falling debts.
Have they been those sights unseen?
Ah! The conspiring soul of mine! It lets
Them inside that tranquil place.
Unknown to all, where the ripples they,
Move farther and farther to embrace
A thought left wandering at the bay.

From Pages Of A Fool

The Narration:

A voice there remained so unsung
That it saddened to depth the day.
While marching men’s armors wrung,
He ate on a hill with wine and played.

The Marching Men:

The tapping of our feat is one,
You fool, you fool and your flute
Pray rot with your wine and bun.
It’s to our names folks sing and salute.

Our blades are fine and arrows sharp
Our strength is greater than of any beast
While with wine and bun you lark.
We shall march for an eternal feast.

We roar louder than any thunder
Come! Enmity with all its may.
With your wine and bun do wonder
Against us immortals what is your say?

The Fool:

I saw the men of song and salute.
I saw the men of eternal fest.
I saw men claiming immortality
I saw the men of souls unrest.
I saw them all lost, not won
I, therefore, play over my wine and bun.

“I have been a king.
I have been a slave.
Yet I know
Same taste of the grave.”

Upon Reasons Of No Questions And Answers

To see more than the depth of the day,
Its extended hand over the longings
So profound, yet they voice-timid and small
But brave enough to gather the length of
The morn, the noon, the even...while all
May succumb to the lost light; the brighter one;
To the light found, only enough to draw
Lines around the solid self’s, of mine and
The one's I have left long behind.

What it becomes to wear a reason
For a question untamed? What it
Becomes of reason that cannot
Conceive an answer.

A Passing Thought

Trace to me the losing words
Grasp them with a hint of pain.
Never together...never the same.
The falling be so cruel yet kind
It offers a lesson in nothingness, so
What is it to you that binds
Over the courteous fragments-low
Hung over the even sky
And the curtained mist and aimless rain.
Benevolence be so graced so rhymed
To sooth away the will of pain.
But has the dusk ever chased
Anything else but the dying sun
Or the dawn have been in play
For a chance to man to be the one.