Blinding sun-My shadow, pause awhileAs you pass my graveAnd I will be content with thee.One day, life will bloomFrom my remains –Then, in its shade-Stay, forever.
The time is nearing to leave.File – save as – give a nameAnd it becomes a partOf my documentsHidden behind a passwordWhich I only know.In the recesses of my hard disksC:\ My documents\ Kottayam, or-Some other name that I declineTo tell you.Later, in a lonely nightI will access the fileAnd glance through itAt random.This flower, that faceThis light that flicker in the darkness
Drowning, choking, slowly killingMyselfIn the swirling waters of currency notesBeneath the debris of credits and debitsSettling downInto the mud of greed, of breach of trust,Of bribes and frauds and distrustSinkingInto the quicksand of speculationsHopes of life bursting like bubbles of my breath –I dream -Of snow-capped mountains…
In the air-conditioned chill of the officeIn the desktop picture of Mount EverestIn passwords like Ganga, YamunaBadri, Kailas or Manasarovar -Leafing, surreptitiously, through the books on treksTo Himalayas and wildernessDreaming meandering throughRhododendrons and snow bound paths-I imagine the sips of water from my bottleTo be that of the streams in the mountains.It is really so easy; all I have to doIs to get up from my seatLeave the complaining customerWalk over to the window at the rear of the officeAnd look up at the skies…
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,Let me once know.I sought thee in a secret cave,And ask'd, if Peace were there,A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:Go seek elsewhere.I did; and going did a rainbow note:Surely, thought I,This is the lace of Peace's coat:I will search out the matter.But while I looked the clouds immediatelyDid break and scatter.Then went I to a garden and did spyA gallant flower,The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,Impatient of no Child --The feeblest -- or the waywardest --Her Admonition mild --In Forest -- and the Hill --By Traveller -- be heard --Restraining Rampant Squirrel --Or too impetuous Bird --How fair Her Conversation --A Summer Afternoon --Her Household -- Her Assembly --And when the Sun go down --Her Voice among the AislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest Cricket --The most unworthy Flower --
If faithful souls be alike glorifiedAs angels, then my fathers soul doth see,And adds this even to full felicity,That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:But if our minds to these souls be descriedBy circumstances, and by signs that beApparent in us, not immediately,How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,And vile blasphemous conjurers to callOn Jesus name, and PharisaicalDissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,O pensive soul, to God, for he knows bestThy true grief, for he put it in my breast.