The images of
Chengiz Khan and Kubla Khan
Conjured up,
Flashed upon
The mind’s eye
And I got frightened
As for your attacks,
Coming in hordes
To atatck.
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The wife can be so much critical and complex,
So plotting and conspiring,Always whispering and pokingMy own against me.Her nature can be understood as thus,She is a BengaliAnd I a Hindustani,Her father and mother ownBut my father and motherFor to be dumped,What a thinking!To complain and criticize unnecessarilyHer natureAgainst loadshedding,Her life a life on medicines,Unable to digest,But she will omlette, eggs, fish and meatAlmost…
They are the terrorists
Into their hearts.Heartless, mindless,The dull-brained fanatics,The so-called zealots.
Is this life of coming close and nearer to
But what disturbs it man is the pain of separation.The eyes fill up with tears when the goodbye is bid.
I often meet him,
In the fiftiesWith the balding hair,But dyed brownAnd with the French-cut beardsOver the chinAnd with an attaché,The golden-framed specsOver the face,Maybe a little bit oldBut his heart is not,A man ever readyTo jog in the parkIn the shorts.
Highway Man,
Finally?I have to go.
Going from this station to that station,
Living like a gipsy,Running for waterWhen the train stationed,Sometimes left behind,Sometimes in a sound sleepAlighting far from destination?Oh, the journey of life,From train to train,Platform to platform,One train to another,Where to reach finally?