Prana is consciousness,

Unknown CitizenIn my poetry!Unknown Citizen,Your torso,Your bustSculpt I!

Mr.Ganjeri puffs in ganjaFrom an earthen takerAnd the eyes drugged-drugged.Mr. Bhangeri takes it in the name ofShivaji’s buti,Herbal pasteTo be abnormal, half-madAnd his brain dulled unto.Mr.Darpiya, daru piyo,Take daru, I mean Indian daru,Low-quality local daru,Made from rotten riceOr from mahua buds.Taking daru, lie you fallen,Fallen on the roadways,The sideways,Into the drainsOr the bushesBut leave not,…

As a fatigued traveller,A passer-by on the starnge path of life,And near the tree halted and paused ITo ask you about the pathway end.It grew dark and the birds started chirping,I struggled and looked through the bamboo bushesThe eyelashes of yours,Sad and wet,The voice choked withAnd you retreating to your hamlet.

New yearFill your days,DaysWith new-new hopesAnd good wishes,Wishes,New-new joys and hopes!

And why do they write it,What can it give to?

Only the twinkling stars.