Silver Crusader

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! – H.W. Longfellow

Autumn’s Incarceration

Imprisoned, enmeshed, enchained the leaves tremble slow,
Across the ends of the trees lined along the pavement,
A strange coterie of thoughts and bodies,
Awaiting autumn to liberate life and soul.

Autumn sits in his ten foot cell,
His eyes half closed like the buddha awaiting emancipation,
A calm demeanour of the storm within
Grappling and drowning his very own existence.

November knocks at the sun’s pall,
Sobers it, dries up the rattling breeze,
Flames of willow the whips grow from the windows of the ventilator,
Like a forgotten stream of epiphany in a maze of embellishment.

The child of dawn shies past the gates,
Autumn beckons, “Come, sit”
Oh capricious fervour of yesteryear, when did you settle,
As an arrow off the bow he flies away.

At his heels the neatly combed young day,clang the bars with his stick,
The rods strike, of the prison, holding down the prisoner Autumn,
He sees around, away to the pale wall, destiny enshrined,
Codified, but unread unfolding with a blinding light.

How many hours passed ? He knows not as the doors gently open,
The evening in her gown of Evian muslin slips in,
Full and bright like the moon tonight, she sits beside,
And lo, he turns his eyes to see her disappear in the night.

The darkness touches Autumn, unending depth of pristine love,
He cannot see the night, but smells the purity in time’s prison and bars of years,
And wrapped in his aura of divinity, stands up,
November harkens to its liberator’s footsteps as he walks out of the cell.

- Nishant

Moving Out

Take your frames and photographs, your crumpled stained shirts of yellow and crimson,
Take away these awry arid dreams of unwelcome hours and piled up longings,
Take away your timeless, untimed watches, cell phones and batteries,
Take away everything that you do not hold mine.

Gently as a child, chided and left to wake up in the dark of the cupboard,
Where he dozed off after a real nightmare, I get up, to pick the last lying loin,
The silence of the bright florescent screeching, take me I am yours,
I lay again, sinking and thoughtless into the calm sea of nothingness.

I thought, I could not, but I did not, for it never came,
The thought, where I would think of the things I left behind,
Empty boxes as empty as the promises made out within the four walls,
Slices of thoughts left at the corridors, as marks of foot, the extinguished cigarettes.

But then all I could see was the rushing crowd, the maddening noise,
The smiling goodbyes at the railway station, the clenching pull of the engines,
The gurgle of the gushing vacuum, and the tracks, as far as I could see,
Tracks, endless.

- Nishant


Asphalt road screeches at the sight of a rubbing tire, tired and tried.
The just and fair sedan comes to a halt, The tired traveler comes out in his crooked hat,
Wondering if the road went short or he drove too fast.

He sees the long endless road,
Starting from nowhere to nowhere,
In the midst is the tired unwelcome traveler,
He could see his bones tremble with the thought of rest.

Tonight he will have an ale, or two,
And a girl or two from the darkest alley, On the suburban town he will stop,
And try to feel the human left in his soul.

But every time he gulps and enters the woman,
The more distant the human goes, the animal died long ago,
Westward he thinks he will go, or so,
Till he finds the human or maybe loses his soul ?



Where do you wish to go Julia ?
For if I hold your hand, you forget your direction,
For if I sing a song of love, it suffocates your breath,
For if I do nothing, none you become.

What do you want to do Julia ?
For if I be your lode star, your compass fails,
For if I steer your ship to bay, your sailor soul cries,
Water or earth what is it that you wish for; my friend.
For if I give you one, for the other you yearn.

Why can’t I see you Julia ?
For now I am not sure if you are real or just an ordeal,
Every word that you speak turns away a key from a note,
Of a song I long forgot.
For I hum the tune I know not.

When do we cross ways, Julia ?
For it seems to be landscape of a town deserted, where we wait,
For the rail just goes ahead, relentless, stoic.
For the tracks that run together, do cross at a change of direction,
For if only I wait for long, will we be Julia ?

Of travelers and learnings

Of travelers and learnings.


Rigid as a stone, the wind strikes by,
A small rule an inch in a million years,
I erode,
Each passing day, or gush if you say,
Takes away the one I knew.

Thunders and rains have lifted the grounds,
Thrown me away and aback from the rippling sounds,
And each passing drizzle or the lightning’s chord,
Tears away the soul in which I was born.

Seasons come and time flies,
Though I still sit somewhere aside,
The useless rock from a different age,
Where is it going ? When shall this end ?


A forlorn ship crosses the Mediterranean into the wild and open sea,
The waves too seem to see the face of the man who set out to be,
For with friends and foes and deliberate woes,
He sets out to greet the land, surrounded in the entrouge.

The room is lit with the best of lights,
Champagne and wine and whiskey to everyone’s delight,
And mutton and stew and soup and caviar too,
And then there is a murmer all around.

“But what did he think ?”, asked a lady in red, Mrs. Goose,
“Oh he says the lord acts in strange ways”.
“What lord, what words, his actions are insane”.
“Yes that’s what I hear, he is losing it, they whisper in the quiet”

“Oh look there he is, smiling like a fool”. said the prudent Miss Wildberry,
“Where ? What ? It’s all his luck and will wash down too soon”.
“Hello there Miss Wildberry and Mrs. Goose, I hope you are liking the view.”
“Dear me, what a lovely party”.

“Must I admit, it was delightful to have you here,
Please take your bags and jump into the sea.”

Sunday Mornings

A white gull passes over head,
As I sit here with my coffee welcoming the sun,
The sound of the chores have started pouring in,
Oh look, it’s a Sunday morn.

The tree on the way has flowers, blue and red,
And leaves green with a sprinkled dew dashing,
An eagle is flapping and soaring above,
The Sunday morning has already come.

But then what difference is it to the sun ?
Or the eagle and the gull ?
Or the leaves and trees and flowers, the dew ?
So nature, as we say did you have your fun ?

Creating the sun the moon, the tarnished sky,
The cold winter and the heavy summer one,
And man and the world and reason to some,
Who made the days ? What Sunday morn ?


A fresh water spring runs through my orchard,
And hyacinths and daffodils sprawl the lakes and the by ways,
The silent orchid sits in the middle,
Roses red and yellow, hilt high,
Wave across in squares.

The orchard has mad blackberries and mean vine saplings,
Tender and creeping through the only fig tree,
The fountains are four in the corners,
I named them joy, love, life and time.

The naughty touch me not’s sit next to the fountain’s pedestal,
It’s a lovely garden,
Do come by.

It’s spring and warm and flowers all around,
Come in winters if you do come by,
I will show you how the beauty withers away and the fountains ice,
And stands in the midst the fig tree, and a moon overhead.


Amir Jahan

I took an auto in an auburn evening,
Amir Jahan says where do you want to go,
HSR Layout, meter only,
My home is Mysore road though I will take you to yours.

62 I am, and this my four months young auto,
40 years I have driven across the roads made and undone,
3 sons I have, grown big and off,
1 daughter, a teacher, I married her off.

I have worked and seen the sun and the shine,
Can’t stay at home, well I am free,
I take the road and the air, hard work has been my star,
I sleep well, isn’t that enough ?

I paid and walked away,
Only to turn back and ask his name,
Amir Jahan sahab,
I could but help smile, for the lesson he gave.


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