Poetry is a dead art,
A postmortem of emotion and feeling.
What can poetry give to
Barring thought and idea?
Can it life-saving drugs?
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Always, always burn the lamp of life,
Maybe it the light will valuble for him,Straying far in darkness,Searching for it desperately.
O, singer,
Before you go away,Sing, sing the songBefore you go, go awaySing, sing you the song,Song of your Rama,O, singer,Singer of heartSing, sing youBefore you go awayMaking me hear, hear it!O, singer,Singer of Rama,Your song I knew it not,Heard it not,Came it not to feelThat you,You too a singer,A singer of Rama,A strange but silent singer,Singer…
Kamala was more of a politician
a woman politicking and politickingwith name and fame,stage and theatre,poetry and politics.
Criticize you yourself before criticizing others. First, try to criticize you yourself then others.
A criticism of yours is a must before indulge you in the criticism of others.So, it is my suggestion to you, try to put yourself to test before you take up the other people for criticism.
I remember you so much
Bapu, the Father of the Nation!
To charge Oscar Wilde in this way and to convict
Into the prison cellAs a prisonerWas not good at allFor English system of law and judgement.To jail a genius in such a way not at all acceptableWhich they did,While dispensing with him,A literary artist of standing,Who might have erred,But the years could have been lessenedWith a precautionary warning which they did notAs for considering his…
But a gentleman,
A clean man indeed
From his within,
Beyond the reach
Of the politicians.
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You made me great
After becoming great.
Is but a moon
Dekho magar pyar se,See but with love.
A girl like the rose, so sweet and fragrant, lovely and dazzling,
Just like a rose, fair, fine and freshStanding before,I could not imagine.
Data and designing,
Give you the dataTo design it.
How, how did they come to feel it, view it then,
The countrified folks speaking vernaculars,Provoking them, instigating with inflammatory statementsAnd they committing suicides, self-immolations,Did it suit them morally!O, talk you not about the sense of morality,They are not at all the literate people,They are the blunt men,The rough and tough fellows,Living in villages,Backward, underdeveloped and impoverished!Had they the sense of morality, and ethics,They would not…
My brother,
I becomeLosing you?A photographThat see I so muchTearfully,My brother,Brother!I lay it hereBut you,You parted ways with,Brother,My brother!