If I were a pangolin

If I were a pangolin 

I would slowly curl up in my den.

My den would be with me

Wherever I decide to be.

Curling up would be much easy

And letting it in not compulsory.

My tail would swat those pests,

And I would be along a quest

With the Badger and the Bear

With whom I could truely share

The story of my many scales

And all those kicking around tales.

May I die?

May I die?
The heart wants to know
It is pining and pinning
and it is screaming.


Every scream falls
on my deaf years.
its lived a long life
and also a lie
it refuses to be
my confidant
It wants to walk
walk as it moves
away and away
to a place
far far way.


It reminds me
of all that it
has seen so long
for all that was
there and there not.
what it left behind.
and what
it had never had
of the love and pain
of the words
of all that worth.


for i have died
many ages ago
it says
it is you who
has to let me go.

Falling out of love

The fear of truth
Leaves behind a stance
A need for expression
Leaves its own mask
Speaking of one
Thinking of the other
Keeping aside the love
An expression of hate
Seeing the sparseness
And not the multitude
Seeking the hatred
And not the approval
The expression of
The self in the other.

Pinning him with you
Twisting her around
Showing that face
Which you have seen
The only one you see
Erasing all memory
Of the truth and nice
Hatred for the self
Blamed on the other
The need to hate:
The need to love
Borne without reason
Yet not of much
Writing in solitude
To those who see
The face i portray
The me behind the me.

When I am four,
I am stubborn and I want attention.
I am hidden and I need not mention.
I am looking for what is lost
I am craving for what was past.
I am missing the light of day,
and the time for all that play.
I am calling out to the then
Where I lived not in a den,
Hatched and allowed to grow
Bask in the sun and water flow.
I am looking for the love and care
For that sweet combing of the hair.
I am looking for the lasting smile,
Nights reading books by the pile.
I am remembering of when-
I was simple and I was sleek
I was not "Oh so meek..!"
I was younger and had a voice,
My decisions were by choice.
When I am four,
I forget all that I have lost,
I dont yearn for what was past.
I am standing in the light of day,
and I have all the time to play.
When I am four,
I look back and I know...
Things once lost are never found,
Destiny is not to which I am bound.
I am peeping out of the window such,
Wishing not to be, by myself as much.

Says, the bird:

When it all was behind me,
When it all was yet to come,
When it all came back to me
When I had it all yet none.
I was scared to be free...
I was scared to fly...
I was secretly hoping,
The pond would never dry.
My dreams were short,
My eyes wide shut...
I could hear the pulse go,
In that mad mad rush.
I wanted to walk ahead,
I wanted to look back...
I wanted the skin to shed,
Leave me and let me be okay!

The fire had now expanded, to the world it was not visible.
She hid it well, within the tresses, they mingled slowly.
At-least she thought so, she didn't know yet, if someone saw.
Saw the flames slowly creep in and not exit from the clouds.
She was not sure, which way to look, where to hide them.
No direction so far had held her close, taken care to look.
The proximity was a fear she treasured, her little secret.
She had now known for long the songs were now dying.
She held on to them, they were dry twigs she did know.
Her hands slowly burned, she had foreseen the ash.
The flame brought the songs to ash, songs already dead.
Tears could save not much, for the tresses were longer,
The drops slowly dried, the salt which had remained,
Clung on to her consciousness, stuck to her for life.
What she could do nothing about was now a part of her,
Not her's to take, not her decision to make, not her's
Yet her soul was at stake; for it was her belief,
In life which was dead on the outside yet alive within.
She was blamed for the flame which was not her's to hide.
She was blamed for the water not being enough to ignite.
The dreams were rampant, epidemic love soon struck,
Blinded by fate and residue salt she decided to flee.
Ran as the girl; through the meadow, a wind flew.
Caught in the sudden wind the long tresses unfolded
Out emerged the lion enveloped in the flames,
Free to turn to ash what had been existing since.

The bird in the box

It was injured.
He picked It up,
And slowly lowered It into a box.
The box was covered with a cloth,
The box had holes in it.

The bird, did not move,
It was injured.
He took care of It with all his heart.
The box was slowly shrinking.
The care bore fruit.

The bird started to peep out,
The blue eyes wide in the bright light.
It was surprised, for It was alive.
He had taken great care.
The bird tried to hop out.

The box had become smaller,
The holes had shrunk.

The bird walked out of the box.
The bird refused to go back in.
It longingly looked at the sky.

When It was last there,
The predator had attacked.
The battle was in mid air.
The claws slowly sunk in.
They left bruises very deep.

The truth shall set you free,
They said to the bird.
The bird tried...
The care was shackled around It.
The deep affection prevailed.

The truth dug It's grave deeper,
They refused to hear out.
Believing was not a question.
They ignored It outright.
For them It was no more a bird.

He tried to set It free,
Love has no bounds.
Not knowing that it was love,

That had clipped those pretty wings.
That had not set It free.

The predator had attacked once.
The eagle had tasted blood,
And the bird had tasted pain.
Pain not close to It's reality,
Pain which knew no bounds.

The bird was younger than many,
Pain was not as alien as pleasure
Pain was not as known as gain.
The pain had not known boundaries,
The pain had not left memories.

The pain slowly became a solace,
The pain slowly ceased to live.
It would hop into the box and strain.
The box was It's object of reverence.
The box was It's object of pain.

He was willing to overlook,
The bird squirming in pain.
Slowly he forgot,
About all the care he had laid,
In the box covered with cloth.

He watched from a distance,
Look he surely would,
He simply forgot to see,
It was not truth,
But pain which set It free.

He revolted at the mutiny,
For the bird had not flown,
Months had gone by,
Before It had really shown,
The courage and the will to fly.

He was taken aback by it all,
The love now turned sour,
Regret of even letting It walk,
Crept in with so much more,
Was it all in his mind, It thought.

The bird tried not to fly far,
Kept a measuring string attached.
It peeped back in the window,
And hid in the box such,
It hid from the world and Itself.

Forgetting all the pain It felt,
It reveled in pleasure now.
Not knowing the bounds then and now.
It flew much beyond,
What the string could count.

He gave up on It,
He took to caring again,
This time for a kitten instead.
He gave up on It forever,
Yet did not set It free.

The truth had failed It,
Now so had he.
The love had taken to remorse,
The knowledge to stealth,
And happiness to hiding.

Only pain had been a friend,
A companion when It was sad,
Standing in timed both good and bad.
To which It took again.
To which he kept looking back.

The only constant was change,
The change of suffering,
From one kind to next.
For now it was not change,
But suffering the constant.

For the last time the bird slipped in,
That box of love, fame and shame.
It went under the cloth,
The holes had long gone,
The eyes closing, never to open again.