I am ready

I am ready world, for your wonders, for your dulls, 

From the chest of betrayal I plucked out my lessons,

For the essence of divinity, I am ready with my shovel,

I am what you made me, the treacherous merchant, 

Now I trade in the sins for the temporary miracles, 

I now, don’t look for the ashes on the road,

I know that I will be just a little cog,

I know, I know, what the world did desire, 

To sleep in the wake of martyrs’ buyers,

To stomp on the feet of the broken wills, 

To chop of the heads of someone else’s kills, 

To use words, as the kings please,

To pluck out only that sense, which supports their deeds, 

I know, I know, how the world is full of hope,

And I know how innocents are laughable and how cruel is the joke, 

There is this line which every human ignores,

The line of divinity, which needs lives by score,

The braves are those, who dare cross the line, 

And foolish are those who willingly resign, 

From the war they ventured in hope of nirvana, 

For the house they built as home, to sweat in sauna, 

They fear the sun for the sweats it blemish, 

And fear the moon for night it cherish, 

They dance in the rain only when they can’t drench, 

And they worship that water only, which could quench, 

Now I see, how the world is a play, 

How my actions are nothing, and how I will pay. 

“the hell and heaven is here my son, you only need to see, 

You need to cut wings to just fall free” 

I didn’t grasp what the monk  had just said, 

I was confused what was heaven and what is hell. 

The Warrior of Rage

The warrior of rage held his sword,

Lingering alone, away from the horde,

The rage of his sword sheathed in scabbard, 

Is waiting for one last victory, one last battle, 

He who remained undefeated in all of realm,

Led the army in war, holding the helm, 

He held the scars dear and rebuked the medals,

Who butchered his enemies just like cattles,

This warrior of rage who stands defeated,

Has never in his life has ever forfeited, 

His blade of rage destroyed empires,

And he never in the battle ever retires,

But now he feels the guilt of his rage,

For the heads he slaughtered in his hayday, 

Now this warrior seeks for the peace,

Who ventured in the crowd just to cease, 

This solider who gave up to gravity of his crimes,

Waits broken in the field hoping for a shrine,  

He took out the blade and removed the red, 

Though as he held, it cut, but he never bled, 

Neither does his madness nor does his pride, 

Is willing to give up and they are hungry for fight, 

They whisper to the solider, “Grab that blade, 

Destroy these fuckers, walking in pave,

These lowly mortals who defy your respect, 

These crooked insects waiting for bread.”

The warrior didn’t feel, the warrior didn’t flinch,

He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t get the hint,

This blade he holds has killed millions, 

In the name of justice and in the name of rebellion, 

His mortal self suddenly heard the flutter, 

Two wings of freedom came out from gutter,

They flew till they got tired, 

They soothed his desires, 

They mocked his rage, 

They reminded him of his debt, 

But they were just messengers, and they stayed, 

As the butterfly rested, on the edge of his blade.

The kingdom and The river.

The walls ran thin, the bells don’t ring,

The kingdom of life is lifeless indeed,

And the river that gave it beautiful memoirs, 

Is now the adversary in the kingdom’s creed. 
Sun is up mocking the sight,

The veins of kingdom being flooded by sorrow, 

Yet the bell beater one feel droughty, 

Waiting at verge of less painful morrow. 
Shredding of sins, from the skin akin,

Purifying in a way that condemns the living, 

Yet the beating one feel righteous, 

Even though she is unforgiving. 
My beating one, longs for the one, 

With whom he drew his own kingdom, 

Where the rivers ran with gilt, guilt of pride, 

The kingdom which accepted her as his bride. 
The kingdom forgot that river takes turns, 

On the to him the river churns, 

Of morrow, of yester, of that wicked pastor, 

Who dipped in the river in the name of holy scripture. 
The commoners of kingdom refused to believe, 

That the river ran dry for a pitiful deed, 

From the love of whom the kingdom was built, 

Has left the kingdom in search of guilt. 
From the Whys and whens

to there and then, 

The river of life averted her path, 

Towards a morrow more beautiful than last. 
The kingdom which never had a river, 

Is waiting now for the rains and simmers, 

Maybe the river will come back once again, 

Even if she comes to drown the kingdom within, 

The kingdom will blemish for the final embrace, 

The river will end the sorrows of the concourse, 

The kingdom will be buried under the river’s bed,

And the urn of the ashes will sing in river’s Grace. 

The Silence of World.

The world became silent, 

When the cursed ones were cursing the rest, 

When the zoos ran out of pets, 

When the roads of life became grave of dead,

The world stood silent, resting at the edge. 

The world screamed for hunger and home, 

The world loved those painful portraits and poems, 

When the child in picture died outside of the cage,

The world stood silent, resting on the edge…
When the rape raged the rumours of recitals, 

When the masks of humans hid the tumors from trials,

When the apes aged and ate ablest, 

The world stood silent, resting on edge.. 

When the father and mother were thrown, 

From the house they built and the love they homed, 

The children who claimed that house in zest, 

The world stood silent, resting on edge..
When the widows wailed for the waiving warriors, 

And the sun stood shining sinning in somber, 

When the chest of pride were left to rot, 

Then the world came yelling, for the righteous frost.

Waiting for a Miracle!

Oh god, oh god, where is the miracle?

Why don’t you tell me where to look?

Guide me to the path, towards pinnacle,

Which stones to turns, to read which books? 
Was is it in the past, when I was blind?

When I was kid, in my mind that wasn’t sane,

When I fought my insanity to become fine,

When the world was less cruel and life was a game. 
Oh Lord, oh Lord, why don’t you tell?

Just one question and I will be free

Am I the Hero or Villain of this fairy tale?

Or is there a different role in my Destiny?
Where is the miracle? I ask you again,

Is it in the future for which I am prepared?

Where I will dictate the rules of this game.

Where Sun will be obstacle and miracle will be shade. 

Oh God, oh God, reply to me once!

Why this illusion? Why this charade?

Why make me dull? Why make me dunce?

Why are you making me walk in this naked parade?

“The miracle exists and I have given it you, 

I have presented you with quil of your destiny, 

Why do you cry my child, why looking for clues?

Why beat yourself in the invisible game of mutiny?” 
Daily prompt- Waiting

Value of sacrifice.

One should always value oneself more than the sacrifice. Sacrifice reside in the deed not the world itself. What’s the point of sacrifice when it’s Value is worthless. 
It doesn’t ask, it doesn’t preach. 

It doesn’t hide, it doesn’t seek. 

It lies to eyes, in light it denies,

It’s not that far, it’s quite near indeed. 
It lies in the glass which a mother rejects by lying,

It lies in the blanket when there is nothing to hide, 

It lies in the bread harder than concrete,

Value of the sacrifice lies in the deed. 
It hides in the smile of the lonely mother,

It lies in the courage of tortured daughter,

It’s denies the right to the preacher in guise,

Value of the sacrifice lies in the deed. 
It finds its way in the brothers’ quarrel,

It finds it’s bay in the drunkard’s barrel, 

It hides from out the player best of greed,

Value of the sacrifice lies in the deed.
It stays in the pride of painful back, 

It stays in on the cheek crimson after slap, 

And it surely doesn’t live in the group of Holy beads. 

Value of the sacrifice lies in the deed.

Graceful Shiva.

Om namah shivay.

May Lord Shiva enlightens your path and guide you away from destruction.

I bow to Shiva ask for blessings,

For the sins he eradicates,

And his ways of teaching.

Neither a god, nor a father, not even a teacher nor a disciple,

I bow my head in his feet that are divine,

As he destroyed my cunning rivals.

His hand that gave me blessings and shelter,

How he gulped the poison churned from the sea,

And how he contained Ganga, in his hair, in the time of disaster.

How he dances and how he remains calm,

How we look up to him for patience and virtue,

How he transfuses the energy from his palm.

For he is the might Shiva, the warrior and a sage,

For he is yogi and for whom we are same,

Who doesn’t discriminate among the mortals,

Who didn’t became the king to propel.

The Lord of destruction, the Lord of salvation,

Told us how he is not complete without Shakti,

We bow to him who is Shiva.

The third eye of his, omnipresent in universe,

His blue throat proof of his patience,

His rage which contains earth’s destruction.

I bow to Shiva, the Nataraj, the elite,
And I bow to Shakti, without whom Shiva is incomplete.

Graceful

Dilemmas! Necessity of evolution.

Now you see child, why dilemmas are necessary. 

Why they are required for the growth of humanity. 

They give humans a chance! To pick among the two. 

Former or the latter, which truth is true.
Once there was a child, 

To be a grown up he cried, 

His dilemma was simple,

He grew up and regretted his life. 
Once was a solider,

Hasty on the border,

He had to choose between brother or border. 

He killed the former and chose the latter. 
Once was a man, kind and gentle, 

He was the priest of the highest temple, 

He had to choose between purity and virtue. 

He fed the child and let the stone die of hunger. 
Once was a king, of a realm unknown, 

The plague had his kingdom blown, 

He had to choose desertion and death, 

He left the kingdom to rot, and long he was gone. 
The tales are many, the truth are few, 

Truth is the morning, lies are the dew,

Now you have the chance, to choose between the two. 

Former the or latter? Which one is true?

Dilemma

Idiotic child.

Where did those days went where love was a cookie and fear was a monster.

Where did that time went, homework was easy and naps were funny.

Where one pocket in pants meant we were gonna be rich. 

It didn’t matter if it was dollar or dime. 

Maybe the sun won’t shine again and maybe I won’t be so fine.
Life when was not a puzzle but a pizza with cheese. 

When it was not a debate who is a friend and who is an enemy. 

When games were not so complicated, 

When politics was just a subject. 

Now we rely on the game of politics and have ourselves saved from fine.

Maybe the sun won’t shine again and maybe I won’t be fine. 
Oh it was easy how simple the life was, 

A few chores now and a chores then and that was enough. 

Mom and dad were always there they weren’t sleeping in ground. 

They were there to hold my hand and spin the things around.

Now they smile, now they dance, only in pictures and films. 

Now they won’t come to save my ass from this paradigm. 

Well maybe the world is not cold and maybe I am not ready to fold. 

But the Sun won’t shine and I won’t be fine and life’s gonna be a bitch. 

Teachers, People with many roles.

As we were kids, reckless and free,

We met a clan called teachers,

We were stunned as we looked at them,

We mistook them for preachers.

They held our hands when god wrote our Destiny,

They guided our paths away from blasphemy,

They called us their owns without hesitation,

And they walked with us in the adverse situations,

As we were pots of mud and water,

They crafted us as sons and as daughters,

They became the water when our knowledge ran dry,

They lent us wings to help us fly,

They held the sword to craft our characters,

They became supports to hold our structure,

For us saplings, that the world discarded,

They became gardeners and didn’t leave us unguarded.

This is for those who didn’t ask for returns,

Those who protected us from the futuristic burns,

This for those who evolved us as creatures,

As we bow down before our beloved Teachers.