Painted Red.

I see dark faces painted in red.
Blinded by the paint
that trickes down their eyes,
they see maybe, only
a shadow of me with a pinch of red,
reflecting from the dripping paint.
The paint on their face.
I go to them to help them wash
But then, they dont see me.
They see a dark shadow
moving towards them,
which they paint red.
Now, I walk the streets
painted in red ,blinded by the paint
that trickles down my eyes.
I see dark faces painted in red.
Red maybe due to dripping paint.
The paint on my face.

Brown Curtains

I love the brown curtains,
that just stays.
It sways and swells and moves and breathes,
all the time hiding something behind it.
Something that I never see,
for hiding and seeing cannot share a moment.
The curtain that keeps to itself
and displays the bright colours
as it lets just the right amount of light in.
Keeping the dust away,
it lets me breathe fresh.
Hiding the hard sun and the dusty wind behind it.
Something that I never see.
And it sways and swells and moves and breathes.
Oh what a wonderful gift,
these brown curtains are, Mother!

रंग

आसमान का रंग  आज पिघल  कर गिरा है I 

कुछ रंग जमा कर ,

दर्पण  मे भर रहा हूँ मै I  

कुछ एक आधा रंग ,

इधर भी लगा रहा  हूँ मै  I 

कुछ अपना,

अपनो के  लिये छोड़  रहा हूँ मै I 

जो होता  रंग खुशी का तो ,

रंग देता सारी दुनिया को I 

अभी तो बेवजह ही ,

लोग  अपना रंग छुपाते हैं I 

उनको रंग  नही दे सकता  ,

पर  दर्पण  दिखा रहा हूँ मै I 

कुछ अपना,

अपनो के लिये छोड़  रहा हूँ मै I 

I am

I am 

The sand , which sank

as waves swept in.

The leaves, that fell off

in the spring to carpet the garden.

The song that was sung and 

then recorded in a tape.

An impressionable mannenquin,

carved to smile and wrapped in a drape.

The songbird that flew and

then was caged.

The paint that glowed and 

with time faded.

The dream that lived, played, jumped

and then died.

The man who once was

a child.

The Coat

I wish my thoughts could swim freely.
Free like a floating leaf on a churning river.
But it is slowed down,
burdened by the wet coat world gifted me.
With no where to go,
the thought drowns slowly as the coat goes heavier.
With no where to run,
it is trapped, chained ,
much like the green trees and wet land,
trapped in a thunderstorm.
With itself, it takes the wet coat.
Take it to the bottom as it sinks
and it holds the coat hard
hoping it never surfaces again.
Hoping it never flows again.