With mortars and shells
The Buddhas, the Buddhas of Peace Cosmic.
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Orhan Pamuk’s museum,
Let us see itMoving into.Is it an art museumOr a love museumOf strange meeting?Is it about an art houseOr a love house?But there is somethingOf art and the passion for,Fashion, art, design,Memorabilia and memento.The oldhouse itselfThe museum of his novel.
A dawn at Puri,
People waiting to enterThe Great Temple.For a darshan,PranamTo Jagannath,The Natha of the Jagata.The Lord of the World,VishnuThe PreserverThe small-small puppet-likeGods ogling beautifully.It’s a dawn-break,The dawn-time,The sun glistening, glowing,Focusing with the frail light.
What it is in my heart, I want to say to you
Will you come and sit by to listen to me?
O foreigner girl, where dwell you,
They call you a foreignerAs you understand not our nativityOf culture, thought, tradition, idea, image,Language, culture of ours,But the heart of mine calls you not,You are the same womankindFull with the milk of kindness,You are the same serving usIn our householdsAs mother, sister and beloved.They call you, call you a foreignerAs they understand not your…
The typist who used to type the theses
Now a professor of a college,The typist who used to work as the office staffOf the university.
How are their law,
Who the judgesAnd how their judgementFor adultery, chastity,No scope fro clemency and consideration?The case history disturbs me,How long shall we remain patriarchalAnd fanaticalAverting the humanistic?