Days, Seeking Nighthood...!!

Night, a friend;
So many stars to befriend.
Grow deeper, these bonds;
With its bright light when, 
The moon too absconds.

Day, but a pretender;
True feelings are real slender.
Harsher feels, this truth;
Gone are the days when,
Of your seemingly short youth.

Words...

Can the words carry my feelings for you
intact, and then aptly convey it too?
Maybe they can't, I just wonder...

And I wonder if they are worthy enough
to be trusted, for they've been traitors before
and are known to betray when you need 'em most

But then I think maybe those are just words 
that you want. And I wonder if I'm right
I just sincerely hope that I'm wrong!!

दुविधा

दरवाजे पर खड़ी चिंतन में,

सहमी, सकुचाती इक बाला;

विस्तृत होता अन्धकार है,

बहती दुविधा की अविरल धारा |

अन्दर शायद सखी छुपी है,

खेल हो रहा लुका छिपी का;

ढूँढना उसकी लाचारी है,

वरना यह खेल अधूरा है |

"पर क्या अन्दर दीपक जलता है;

या यह रात अमावास है?

भीतर जाकर देख पाने का

साहस क्या उसके पास है?"

अगर वो अन्दर जाती है,

और छुपी सखी उसे मिल पाती है;

तो वे लौट के घर जायेंगी, 

और अँधेरे के दूतों को, हा हा करके चिढायेंगी |

पर अगर अँधेरे ने दबोच लिया, 

और आशाओं का आँचल नोच लिया, 

तब क्या ये साहस रह पायेगा?

या उसके आसुंओं में, तिनका तक भी बह जायेगा?

इतने तक तो तब भी ठीक है,

क्यूंकि सखी का साथ अभी बाकी है;

पर आँकों तुम मूल्य इस खेल का,

गर जो सखी ने साहस छोड़ दिया... | 

The Nature of Heart

And ain't this the nature, of this friable heart,
To sigh yet beat, even if it lays torn apart?
Pick up those shards, one could try,
But slips though my fingers is just some sand dry.
Ain't this the nature of the fragile I?

And ain't this the nature, of that stranger wind,
To wear away the shreds, the existence rescind. 
And to carry those pieces, till it would like to play,
Then dump 'em bluntly, and call it a day?
Ain't this the nature of the alien you?

And spread on the shore are all such pieces;
Deluged and invisible, till the tide decreases.
And playing with 'em, people, one can find;
Takes just a few drops, for this sand to bind.
Ain't this the nature of the heart' sand?

An Ode to Sleep

That elusive, eternal sleep,
Refreshing the mind 
And comforting as if,
One has reached atop 
A mountain, high and steep.
Or, has 
Touched the floor 
Of an ocean, blue and deep.
These highs and lows 
So unlike, the ones
You'll get with a wine cheap.
Ah! If only I could get,
That eternally elusive sleep.

फ़साना

क्या बतायें फ़साना, हम अपना तुम्हें

कर हीं देतीं हैं बयां ये आँखें, लम्हे दर लम्हे

पर शायद तुम करते हो बस चेहरों से मुलाकात

तभी पढ़ नही पाते हो इन कहती आँखों की बात.

पर गम ना करो, कहने को है भी नही कुछ ख़ास

उड़ जाती है खुशबु, रह जातें हैं तो बस मेरे काश

और जिंदगी बन कर रह गयी है इक जले का दाग

मिटाने को जिसे छेड़ा हो जैसे, किसी ने बारिशों का राग

और उन कातिल बारिशों से टकराती जूझती

सहमती, सिसकती, तो कभी जरा भड़कती

छोटी ही सही, पर अब भी दहक रही है आग

के बुझ ना पातें हैं मेरे, ये आशा-ए-चराग...   

A Tribute to "Metallica"

This is my tribute to "Metallica". "The Learned Ones" already know the importance of words that are bold, and I've chosen my favorite ones.

Oh! I hear The Call Of Ktulu,
That dreaded call, but for whom he calls?
And I hear the bell toll,
But For Whom The Bell Tolls?
I do not know, neither does the Astronomy.
So just pour metal(lica) into my veins
For I go to War...That is all there is,
And Nothing Else Matters.

O My Friend(s) Of Misery,
Do not cry, neither sing
The Low Man's Lyric,
When I fall and become,
Or not, The Hero Of The Day.
For I've remained King Nothing
for ages, ...and its time for justice,
justice for me, ...And Justice For All.

Oh! Its the day Of Wolf And Man within you,
The Day, for which a lifetime you may wait,
And yet, The Day That Never Comes.
Though that Tuesdays' Gone, but I remember
What the Mama (had) Said. Oh she'd said not to fear
But to live. "Carpe Diem Baby", she'd said,
"For you've already been dubbed The Unforgiven,
By the One...that Master Of Puppets".

Oh! I remember, 'cause The Memory Remains
Like a Thorn Within, and will Fade To Black
With me, but only when its time to fade.
And then, Enter (the) Sandman will,
For now it'll be his turn, his turn to Turn The Page.
And I'll happily Ride The Lightning holding my Fuel,
—My Whiskey In The Jar, and roam Wherever I may Roam.
This is how I'll meet The God That Failed, however Sad But True.

Success...

Success is when an egg hatches.
None hath seen
The struggles of young;
The pain, and its glory, left unsung.
If you want, and are keen;
Just look on the walls for those desperate scratches...

Heavens are Far

Men come and then they're gone; 
Haven't even the Gods dwindled? 
Some are now a part of the lore, 
Others, just a dot, unknown, of yore. 

Yet, for things that are but a wraith; 
We kill, we rape, and thus, we declare our faith. 
But only to the ones feeling, 'tis a crime; 
To the ones dealing, these become acts sublime. 

And so, what will become of the promised lands; 
When we as victors reach there? 
Having already made one as hell; 
Isn't it time, to stop — and think what we're trying to sell?

My Reeking Thoughts

The night reeks of my thoughts and desires;
Nights that aren't dead,
Desires unmoving,
And preyed upon by reminiscence.
How the pile keeps getting bigger,
And bigger.
And how every other night dies,
With one of my thoughts,
Or desires.
Pure, but still reeking.

Like those satis burning, on their husbands' funeral pyres;
Women, that aren't dead,
Husbands unmoving,
But to keep their essence.
How everything burns, with vigor
And rigor.
And how they go one by one, as a reprise 
From those lots,
Willingly, or forced into such fires.
Alive, yet heaven seeking.

"Statutory Warning: Pretty Hard Stuff. Read at your own risk."

Tuesdays' Really Gone

'Twas a Tuesday...just like any other, out there.

But that was a year before. Or, maybe its a lifetime on...,
and my thoughts circle around the lyrics of "Tuesdays' gone".

The Tuesday sure is gone. With the Wind.
I bet, whilst leaving, it must've grinned.

Now theres' just this wait. I sit alone, bare, on the station
waiting, for the train, or on rails, the slightest vibration.

Can not leave the station. I'm the one carrying it on.
All the parts I play, and characters I don.

The wind comes back. Feel it on my face every now and then,
packed with the Tuesday's scent. Starting to forget I'm when.

Oh! the train did pass from here before,
— and maybe, I missed it;
or, maybe 'twas an express nonstop, I wouldn't know,
I was just too late to catch it...!

"Note: Prior listening of the song "Tuesdays' Gone" should help a bit :P"

In a Windy Winter Night

On the heels of a day mundane,
   another night has put its feet --
'cause dies down every fire there is,
   and a chill replaces its heat.
   And left behind are some bones, some ashes
      of memories, and mere dark stains, --
   to be scattered in time by winds harsh, and
      washed away by years of incessant rains.

The night has brought the struggle back,
   to rein in my thoughts stray, however vain --
thoughts do come, what're they if not hungry lions,
   and its hard to stop'em, from coming out of their den.
   Trapped between the jaws of those beasts
      should I give up, be a prey, writhing, --
   or play a tyrant I must, kills his own subjects
      who, and doesn't even feel a thing?

And by the window, against the wall,
   lie the vast plains of my bed --
quiet and empty, it resembles a Pharsalus
   and surely its' perfectly made.
   Flee from the encounter I can,
      condemn myself if I just, to the chair, --
   But punish the innocent clay if I,
      the struggle will be anything but fair.

So I go to this bed of mine, seeking
   subsequent glories, comforts coveted --
under the blanket, lose if I were to,
   at least the conflict may stay veiled.
   And just about the time when I,
      having won, was to fall asleep, --
   appears is a dagger unseen, of cold,
      and slashes me repeatedly, deep.

Though the cuts were deep but no more
   than those piercing words of theirs(/*yours*/) can reach --
I canvass the surroundings of my room,
   for the probable point of breach.
   True, walls you can raise against your foes,
      but what fort can hold its head high, --
   when the traitors are the sentries themselves,
      and the words are just words, from a disguise.

A mere look around was all it costed,
   to find the window with a missing glass --
only a paper I had, I tried to paste, except,
   when bronze is the need, doesn't work a brass.
   Stubborn was I, and I persisted,
      another lesson was to be learned, --
   irritated, I completely opened the window
      though this is not what i had yearned.

And outside, blows such a cold wind,
   and persists the darkness stark --
shivering are the dogs, or have,
   some reasons beyond their bark.
   Unaware of this all, was a flutter of moths,
      overjoyed, as they had a perfect host, --
   singing and dancing in the dim light of
      a distant, and warm old lamppost.

Maybe it was the sublimity of the lamppost,
   I got all the warmth I needed --
I slipped into my bed again, and
   the cries of old wounds went unheeded.
   Quiet have become things now,
      maybe subsided has their pain, --
   but those dogs will howl again, unless,
      the warm light of a lamppost they gain.

And perhaps, the next night when it comes,
   the cold will remain as before, dense --
and unclear may remain the path,
   laid down for me to embark. --
   But I've hope, for my warm lamppost,
      and for things to reveal their sense,
   then free of my borrowed crutches at last,
      I won't be creeping, I will proudly walk.