My love,
My love?
Red Rose…
Just like you,
Like you.
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He had not to be a leader,
In the election frayFrom the Common Man Party.Had no quality,Now calling himself a foil to a bigwig,A political heavyweightWith his dramaturgy.His dramaticsPeople know it not,Wearing the white topiWith the bill or the grafitti,A common doing uncommon politicsOf coming into power.The AAP jokers are but a foilTo the bigwigs and heavyweights,An anti-establishment driveOf underestimating thoseWho forgetting…
Say to the Lord that he came, kept the pack
And went away.Roses for St.Valentine, roses for the Lord of Love,Unwrap your feelings or him,The feeling of the heart.Offer to him toOr pray to him at least for onceOn St.Valentine’s Day.
For to be an English poet,
I mean Vilayat,With Vilayati gait,You need to keep something.First, you need to dress in pants and a shirtWith the golden-framed stylistic glassesOr maybe they the dark sunglassesOver the faceAnd your face hidden from,I mean you unrecognizable,The audience calling you to take off the specsAnd you smiling sweetly.If you have to be a poet, it is…
In which cave
TheyThe chunks of stone and rocksTo carve out and chiselThe linga,ShivalingaTo see lightThrough the human eyes?Shivalinga,Shivalinga,How to carry the stone with,How to clutch along?
Literature is literature,
If it is really of the Dalits, by the Dalits and for the Dalits,Why are they critiquing itFor to be the famed non-Dalit criticOf the Dalit things?Just for to take the credit,The non-Dalits advocating their caseCall themselvesThe well-wishers of the Dalits,Let them write their own history,Influence them not,Whatever be their feelings and experiences.