The Clouds of Revolutions

The clouds of revolution are forming
upon the distant yellow sky,
to unleash a vast sea of rain,
for too long, held in store within.

Soon there shall be a violent wind,
tearing down grand palaces and
petty slums alike, to the ground
well before the rain is unleashed.

Soon there shall be a violent surge
rising up from the riverbeds,
deprived and dark, to touch the sky
for the round moon is bleeding too.

Vicious tidal waves shall kiss,
gnawing with their ravishing lips,
the shore, littered with heaps of stone
and grind the rubble to grains of sand.

Then finally the rain shall come,
the much awaited rain, to sprinkle life
upon the barren sand, too dry
and from the ashes shall a nation rise.

Filthy Politics!

Though it began like an epic,
with grand hopes and holy dreams
to purge a nation of her sins
of treachery, unrepented still,
of late it has become too plain,
like a propaganda almost,
whose haughty demands are no more
justified than the sins they were meant to purge.

The same happened too in Seventy One,
the great year of our victory,
when we had let the hooligans
of the infamous Sixteenth Regiment,
abuse the sacred spoils of the war,
nothing less than the entire motherland.

After we had repelled the foe
with our life, blood and dignity,
being raped and massacred for nine months,
we watched as our sovereignty
became the patrimony of
a great man and his family,
whose greatness was stained with the greed
of his arrogant kin and followers.

Then for fifteen years a few men in green
rose to glory, power and fame
atop the hill of gore and blood
to meet the cruel noose waiting to be kissed.

Then in Ninety One we rose again
to restore the so called democracy
but this time around our glory became
the patrimony of a man, long dead,
whose visions were stabbed by his blood
and raped too by his corrupt followers.

Two more decades have past since
and we were united once again
till we let the revolution degrade
to a violent and irrational mob.
O would there be no end to this,
the vicious cycle of filthy politics!

My True Love

My true love is someone who has
never deserted me in her life,
bearing with me everywhere,
unaltered through the days and nights.

As when the rain has turned a bright
and sunny day into a grave
or as dark and the flash of light
from a roaring thunder unveils
the blind world, I see, she is there,
either sitting if I am too
or if I remain on my feet
she stands at least as tall as me.

On a clear day her height varies
with the position of the sun.
In the morning she starts from far,
creeping close as the day progressed
and her height keeps diminishing.
Right at noon when the blazing sun
reaches the summit of the sky
she is closest and shortest too.

From there till the eye of heaven
is setting beyond the horizon
her height grows as she walks away
from me and her color pales.

On a moonlit night when I feel
a longing for love deep inside,
she is there beside me and when
at nights too dark without the stars
as I wish to be left alone,
she is there too, just invisible.
Thus my true love is forever
around me through my weals and woes.

O I can only see but never feel
her for she is my shadow on the wall!

When Memories Fade

Seems I have nearly forgotten how softness feels,
forgotten the feel of tender love and
the sound of her whispers, satisfied.

The soothing warmth of her faith, firm
around my blunt soul ever rebelling
and the taste of her fluid smile too are forgotten.

As if the vigor of her memories were drained,
so they could not live through the winter last,
the harshest I have seen so far.

Though it is gone a week almost,
traveling south and downward on the globe
as the glowing sun slowly to the north returned,

what the warm sun and the cold haze of the winter
have for ages done, like two lovers in wild love
on their bed, the sky, blue and vast,

there are still no signs of the spring
and from the appearance of things right now
the spring just might be unusually late this year.

While the barren, scorching days too dry, loomed ahead
and my urge to sense her softness again
with my ragged skin is on the rise

there are still no signs of the spring
and from the appearance of things right now
it seems as though the spring might never come this year.

Instead of mellow love and care, indifference
and in place of the prolific wonders of rain,
I knew this year droughts would ravish me, when I saw,

instead of her memories, soaking wet
with just the soothing warmth needed to belong
only a dry, sterile wind has returned.

Then I knew the agony of an empty brain
once I have tried in vain to recall through the night
those sweet feelings and sounds that were to me dearer,
once not too long ago, than even my own life.

An Elegy for A Comrade

O Brave soldier of freedom, true,
O so ruthlessly slaughtered soul,
O the first martyr of our age,
we shall never have your blood spilled in vain!

After almost forty two years have passed,
the traitors have drawn first blood once again,
bringing back the memories of cruel pain
but if they think that it will make us run
away in fear or force us to give up,
we shall not even spare them with the time
to be surprised when our noble avengers
soon unleash slow and painful death on them.

O the unvanquished and fiery
spirit of the revolution,
you shall live in us until its over,
this war for our independence and beyond!

O the selfless hero of our generation,
O the lamb who wounded them with his sharp, glowing words,
on your sacred blood we have vowed not to return home,
like our ancestors, the pioneers of freedom, brave,
believing in the divine hope of peace
through an illusive armistice, abused
by the very traitors to replenish
their wealth, strength and influence lost in the war!

O first, true martyr of the second wave
we swear on your blood to annihilate
and we vow not to cease before
the very last of the traitors
and their blood from this bleeding ground,
through sacrifices made divine,
are repelled away from the holy land
and only then, mourning, we shall bury your sacred bones!