is but a benevolent garden
and what matters
purely honey furnished interior,
swarm hive in fragrant peasant tree
or even in fetid city refuge.like rain,
bees make no distinction and
brew for anyone.seeing darts as opportunity
of silent service, they
buzz wing far inside the brewery of the pollen
to freight back
that which could sweeten what is bitter in man.
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When the wind that sifts dust
the earth becomeslike someone’s kite-trees, clouds and skyclash against each other-the obscure torchessilence breaks platesempty space pours downthat presupposesthe advent of something unseenwhich takes shape for somethingelse unseenas grapes manifestfrom blossomsheavy with wine unseenin which you look for what is firmthat lifts its head in your heart-yielding insight other thansorrow and joy,the rest is dreg.
Beautiful is the ‘thank you’
Offered to peace prone peopleWho offer what is real-themselvesTo nurse with love and humilitynapalm asphyxiated victimsin our stained worldveiling ambition with face ofhumanity.Beautiful is the momentwhen sunlit world fades awayAnd with it mind made mirrorWhile look inward drawn, sight insight led,and heart shuts out desire to let inconsciousness.
Wonderful is not so much
As the beauty of the loveArrested in its architecture-Starry white dome in starry spaceRay lit clouds set aglowFairer than the sky, akin to third eyeVisitors’ mind illumine with cosmic blissAs night snuffs asleep.What’s bricked up looking glassDawn sunpolishesTill Jamuna’s surface looks backHallucinating but still real.There’s in it no beautyThat’s not surpassed in beautyBy beautiful carved…
Of all raw passions, kiss alone
So short its distanceBe it of blood or two souls,To reverence awareness,Sweetest though unspokenUnderstood by any tongueWhose affection natural as sighTastes like nothing on earth,Links to states no man thinks,Itself raises as a momentIn time’s memory,Love so sublimeWhose sound silentYet its echo lasts as truth-A wish turned Godward.
Sound is my slumber but rude my awakening;
hard the time I endure in but harder the hurtof cleansing of my negative selves, thoughsoothingis the growth of the wingsof consciousness, yet strange isthe resurrection of my self essencefrom the dark cocoon, but stranger stillmy transformation into a winged flower.
You’re only held together by me
alive you suck the airfor any nipple of moisture, deadI reuse human remains to revivefuture dust to re-people waste.I turnmy garments of seasonsto unpack weather, inducing sky-spilledrain tasting infinitude.in my bird-throatedland the fluting windgently blows the landscape in your eyesstirring your curiosityto trees flaming into autumnor the sun dimming its light lowto cosmic blissas today…