How sinful

Going by the way,Marking the beauty ofNature and its phenomena,The panorama clad in mysteryAnd fineness.But sometimes trauma and bad timesTake overAnd it comes in the life ofEvery human beingWhen he needs to survive and sustainSomehowEven though under hardship and suffering.

Or frolicking them,Hanging onto,Blooming uponIn clusters or bunchesDecorating the treeFlamboyant, fiery red,Reddish, flame-red,Ornate and floweryAnd decorating the barren earthEven in squelching, sweltering heatOf Indian summer,I stop by,Pause a bitUnder itAnd dream my dreamOf bringing a brideIn sixteen shringaras,In Benarasi handloom silk sari,Embroidered and brocaded,Kajal, tikli, bangles, myrtle, vermillionAnd others

A golden era gone by?

And many of them lost their lives,The soldiers of where,Dying whereFighting for a causeOn foreign landsAnd laying their lives too,Who mourned for whom,Who knew whom,Just the commanders counted their menAnd felt heavily forWhose bodies never reached home.Were they conscripted,Did they voluntarily,How did they?

Surdas the blind-born saint of Krishnite plays,Excelling in childhood depictions,Penetrating into child-KrishnaSeeing his reflection into the pillarsAnd with the curd-smeared mouth,Mirabai oblivious of her princely royaltyDevoting and dedicating her daysIn the worship of KrishnaAnd the world laughing atAs for her company of sadhus and yogis,Kabirdas the illegitimate child of a Brahmin widowThrown off for fear…

Is this all?Daru piyo aur khus raho,Take daru and make merry.Daruman,O Daruman,Daruman not, Darumaster!