Author: Piyush Kaushal

The leaves will fall this autumn,
And the love shall rise

Of the fallen coarse leaves,
The pale yellow squanders the feeble green

And, a droplet shall lustre into springs,
The hateful yesterdays bludgeoned by the lusts of bloom

Those springs, ah yes, ones from the previous line
Take a leap into yonders of heaven

When the sunlight strikes a crackling mountain
It rises along to form a rainbow

From blacks to grays, from grays to white
The colors of doom fade away

Some clouds in the attic whisper a poem
The one from Rumi, and Ghalib, and Gulzaar

I pluck the rains from these clouds
The lightning plumbs a surprise

The leaves will fall this autumn
And the love shall rise

I hate to run away
I hate to hold the lie

I hate what you never said
I hate when you never try

I hate why the rights never tend
I hate why the wrongs don’t say bye

I hate why the skies are too dark
I hate why the stars are too shy

I hate when the fears lead to pray
I hate why these fears never die

I hate why my eyes never bled
I hate when the seas are too dry

I hate what they always said
I hate that i am too old to cry

I hate why i can’t chase my dreams
I hate when it’s too late to try…

I am dreamer, yes I’m a dreamer!

He sat there, near the masjid on a cot
His face crisscrossed in wrinkles
a long, patient artwork
from the 8 decades of an indifferent life

His hands tremble,
as if there are earthquakes
he hides in himself
his eyes burning with
volcanoes that went awry

There’s a broken toy in his lap,
people throw pity, some 2 rupee coins
those who need prayers flick some more
for a desire that is worth millions

The old man sits there,
the world seems hazy to him
it’s as if he’s died long ago
and everything is a Deja Vu on replay
or maybe an illusion, or an anxious thrust

Through his blind eyes,
the old man sees a bright young lad
on his father’s shoulders, the father held him tight
this boy meant the world to him

In the battered toy, he smells fresh pure blood,
it blends with gunpowder, like winds in a desert
That day he remembers clearly, death danced
on the pyre of small demonic kids, and women and men,
and the bright young lad

Who slayed the boy, he is not sure
religion, caste, creed, he doesn’t remember
he didn’t recognize the blood on their hands
they called themselves godmen though
this tune of devastation, brings back thy god,
he is pleased isn’t he, for he’s made this song

For 2 decades he sat across a temple
waiting to hear the answers
for another 2 decades, he waits here at the masjid
he seeks revenge, from whom?
the god maybe, the god whose angels are bold, brutal and black

On this day of fog, he waits to see the reason
of this chill, the numb air, and blank expressions

He waits near the masjid on a cot…
this revenge muttering, scoundrel old man