The tree with a thousand branches,

Fell down one night,

And all who looked upon said ruin,

Despaired at the loss,

All but the woodcutter who nodded sagely,

And fished out his whetstone.


Eye of the Masses

Look beyond,

But no farther than the walls which guards you,

For then the scene changes,

As all you would see shall voice,

Their own tales of tragedy,

Till those screams vaulting freedom dies down, 

And the silent catacombs stir awake,

In ash and dust, 

Raising ghosts that would scale the wall, this wall, 

To take shelter by your hearth,

And of all those who shall heed your reminiscence.

If Illuminated the specters will stand,

Looking beyond,

At the flames lighting long horizons,

Towards a new path, towards a new world,

Yet unknown and unchanged,

Awaiting the distant dust of their march.

O Witness, who saw true,

O Descendant, who braved, 

When you tousle the wordless shards,

Know that the mirror then would reflect neither the stillness of time, 

Nor the ember notes of progress,

But would turn opaque, uncertain,

As is all that resides, 

On the other side.

For it is by the brink of one’s eye,

Where the blindness begins.

The Walk of Ignorance.

The Traveller halted, 

And half raised his fist,

To set the grains in motion,

Whilst the shells of bone, 

The erstwhile whisperers of century long steps,

Stood rooted in envy, 

Too fallen, too fell,

 to know that they have indeed arrived.


The Rehearsal

For many a filthy centuries I sobbed beneath the moon, 

For many a happy festivals I saddled away in gloom, 

For longing days of endeavour I traveled in my yard, 

For countless nights of feinging flights I fell, and fell down hard.

The freedom of my Martyrdom, thus can be ever sung, 

When the swinging of those dead resounds the chapter hung, 

And the drizzle of Golden virtue drops upon thy land, 

While cursed faith of red blood stains my crystal sand. 

In the past of reinging dark I fumble on my way, 

In the realm of harping larks I mumble what I must say,

By the mud of cleansing sages I must wither down my curse, 

As the final act of men I did and did rehearse. 


The Arrival

Autumn breaks,

And I am waiting, at the station,

Perched by a bench,

Beneath the sign boards, and neon lights,

Eyes on the gentle curve,

Of the rails, 


It’s been ten years now,

Since I wrote this words,

And you are yet to come!



Most well written poems,

Don’t mean anything,

They are but broken words,

Stitched together,

To mirror perfection.



Fear not O angel,

If your wings are cut,

You can live among us, 

As human, 

Only to learn in time,

That we are not so different after all.