To the Himalayas

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Oh! the mighty one.
The bosom of the mother earth.
Adorned in pristine snow.
That shines like sheet of jewels
Bestowed liberally over you.
The nourishing stream that ooze out.
For ages cradle the life beneath
You haughtily stand, the sole guard.
The chosen dwelling of the Gods.
Habitat of the Yogis.
Numerous mysteries enfolded in your lap.
Older than the old yet newer than the new,
Inviting to be explored yet un-submissive.
Garlanded by the serpentine roads.
Camouflaged in the wealth of green
You bestow the boons to the man.
Yet they seem to challenge you.
Engage you in a mindless war.
Where whoever looses
Defeat is ours.

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The Melodrama of Election

The Drama enfolds.

The actors appear for their best performances

(Not literally though)

Yet they say they are the best.

Say? They proclaim it aloud.

The game of mudslinging they indulge in.

And they are good at it.

And only thing they are good at.

Accusations fly, the air is thick and hot.

None to be left behind.

It’s the Kumbh of democracy.

All want a dip in the confluence of power.

But the dilemma shall prevail.

For the good words veil the intent.

No touchstone could revel

The good from bad.

Yet The We would choose.

And bundle the bouquet of thorns

And gift it our own selves.

And easy will sit the head that bears the crown.
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Sounds of Sorrow

In the Bleak times,

When lights dim,

Feet falter, Sadness engulfs,

Piercing wail curbed in the heart

Fails to announce

The pain I bear

Foreboding load that mind carries.

Crushes the soul.

Could I unburden the past?

The fountain of sorrow

Still untraced,

The perennial spring flows

Drenched I stand.

Still unscathed?

Now that I doubt!

For Long I endured

The earthlings limit

Spares me not

So I too do crumble

In a soundless shatter

Shreds Strewn all around.

What courage will it take

To gather the tatters

Which no tailor could sew

The garment one whole

So let me remain without soul.

Poet of fit and start?

Streak of creativity strikes,

A rare muse crosses my path,

Yet fail to ignite that fire,

The rusted pen hardly writes,

Scarce words the hardly express,

Mind conjures faded images,

That holds not long,

River of thought runs through the desert,

The drought is long,

Could the famine of ideas end?

Will the barren mind bear the frit?

Scorched and parched the heart remains,

Thirsting for the downpour,

Denied the nectar that configures,

Sweetness, scent that bees seek,

The thrust that impregnates,

Plants the germ,

That when grows fulfills the life.