The poets are not interested at all
Any pleasure moment and told me,
Go there please and leave us here
Where we are with sorrows of poetry,
But I find poetry is no way
Related or concerned with anything
So-called pleasure and pain.
I told all I want nothing and yet
They are not taking interest and
Not in a position to believe me.
What to say to my own self, but
It is there in me and in deep sleep.
Listen to my cry andFeel the songs within.Visit my dreamsAnd get all treasury.It is everythingLive and life.
Actually, life is large, andWe live here for good.But rarely, the truth is discovered by us,We are the product of the truth, though.We are truly great souls, butThe agitation has no role, we know.We are the air and we are the water,We are also the flowers and we growWith the power of our will.Nature is…
On this earth.This earth-My homeWherein I took birthAnd hereinI am dyingAt every moment.But I am living hereWith so many coloursAlways and enjoyingDays months and years.
That to what useIf we deny ourOwn existence!All nuisanceAnd still we care.Some one has toArrive to sayAbout the show.Under scannerThe show.
Morning routeLong and fine.Infinity silenceLife glimpsed.Far and wideHonouring streets.
Unto you, men.Enjoy life,And knowWhat it is.Nothing is hereWith youBut the truth.And you are allEternal.And you are notDifferent fromOne another, dear.
