Truth of the desert
Desert sings it’s loneliness
and
wipes out my foot prints,
Desert is unaware of mirage.
I cry,
not on account of my own solitude
I am shocked,
how silently the sand allows
wind to smear away
the names
written on it’s surface…
May be
The wast and endless absence of any land mark
On the spread of desert
is
the conspiracy of Wind
and Sun too,
they can at least teach
about mirage to desert…
Alas,
The desert is really alone….!
I deny
Growing up
is
receiving and giving untruth
in cool,
turning mature
and leaning towards cunningness
keeping polished smile.
Growing up
is
denying innocence,
denying the natural thrust
masking it
under perfumed costume.
Under blue sky
with
spread of stars and moon
on open terrace,
there is no place for grown ups.
there is no place for grown ups
in garden,
in melancholy room
where you and I sit
and listen Santur recital.
I deny growing up,
deny
disowning myself
for any good reason,
today
or tomorrow…
I doubt.
I love to allow
tears
roling on my face
out of
joy and grief,
for grown up people
it is
neither a need
nor
a possibility.
I shout loudly the forbidden name
which gives me life
I believe very much jn such rejuvenation.
I wonder
any grown up
can keep such believe.
I see dreams,
witness some face in clouds
and earn delight,
Do you know any grown up
with such silly traits ?,
I doubt.
My Portraits
It was not the portrait of my mother
I had drawn,
but to my wonder,
how could I place a mole on her chin
that drove the fragrance.
I once had a book of nursery rhymes
which I mugged up all,
She never cared that I always drew
A flower like a rabbit,
She was excited only
On my action songs.
The day,
my father passed away
and my mother
stepped into her virtual death,
I was working on a portrait
in my dreams,
a flower like flower, and rabbit like rabbit,
and
it was not the portrait of my mother.
My portrait is crying my action songs
my dreams
are not the dead dreams at all
Ashok Gupta
B 11/45 Setor 18 Rohini