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  • Poetry



    Hail Man! Not only do you build today, but with your rudeness tempered to a sky-hardened rudeness, you are boundless! Thy life is a prison-cell girded with earth: instead of daily busy, active weekdays, it remains a ruthless enslavement of slave-labour. Unsupported by all, but exposed to every galling assault, Thou hast halted, for in the millstone-presses of thy fears, With responsibility thou hast rather shut back into thyself - Orphan, hesitant, and so awkward a pityado.

    And so that no more of the more vile chains, no more of the dagger thrusts of the robe-wall-weaving dagger thrusts, may be turned into a marble block of ore, you try to soothe your wandering, vulnerable soul, and the next day, in remorse and remorse, you confess to yourself in a judge-questioning, rootless-questioning way: 'Did I do right?! Have I done all? - Yet now I greet you with a relieved heart! Between the good and the bad, the race is still on. You would have reason to be ho...

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    It's no use rejecting you now, or denying yourself falsely. I am still bound by human soul-contracts, and for your sake I still go and stand, if need be, as an unshakable "role" in this great human conflict.

    Neither avoiding nor evading friendly, chubby scarecrows scaring the princes of black ravens, half-intrepidly - but still more conciliatory. Nor do I regard thee as a celebrity to be bribed, but as a fairy-blessed lady among men, Who may yet hear my supplication, the alamusic calvary of my wounded soul.

    I know I'd be a pathetic fellow, poor thing, who turns to you for help as a fan, who peers at you alone, slyly peeping. Haunt me with your understanding, analysable humanity. Be my guide and companion in my hellish present, where I am plagued by the law of assassination.

    I know now, the bottomless well of many a disappointment, That thou art a famous man, who is deceived, used, and betrayed daily. For me, believe me...

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    Who will listen to my mournful, brooding, mute, mumbling words: Judge me not in vain - I have striven for the True and the Good, To mingle the more inwardly vulnerable worlds With the real, which from without, as the tormenting fear of ceaselessness, Has often surrounded me, - To be the forerunner of newer, more fantastic things, if perhaps the weak-eyed blind eye of this Age May wonder at them!

    Why have these two voices, seldom heard, become a peculiar gift to this fate so unmeasured?! O! Outward and inward voice, thou divine spark! A eureka spark to be reinvented. From the sediments of my ancient land, Thou alone canst secretly answer the lark's voice that calls thee! Between man and man, the many ordas-titles of this oppressive Existence are being tightened, and how many walls of self-defence, built up by a percentage of self-defence, would have to be torn down, before the gates of complicated souls could open at last, as a promise of unconditional ...

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    MONDAY                  BEGINNING



    TUESDAY                 KNOWLEDGE






    THURSDAY             PREPARATION      



    FRIDAY                    LESSON       



    SATURDAY             THANKFUL



    SUNDAY      &...

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    Call back

    Narrow clouds are playing in the distressed sky,
    Cannot spent this time with an empty heart.

    The hungry owls simply went to sleep.
    What happened to the flowers of cactus blooming untimely?

    In what tune do the birds sing at night,
    What does the hornet wants at the blind garden?

    Earth wakes up to a sleep-awakening song,
    In the morning breeze, the soul felt empty.

    Where goes the charioteer of warrior Arjuna?
    Saussurea obvallata floated in the middle of the still lake.

    Peacocks give a blank look towards the peahens,
    Wild nightingale sings in what tune?

    Why is sun getting up late today?
    However, the heart calls back to whom, unknown.


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    You who are already daily terrified of Death knocking at your door, know that you have nothing to fear! Perhaps there can be nothing but mutual understanding, perhaps some secretly bargained-for pensive reconciliation. And yet here you live wrapped in sameness on this earth with your willful desires for difference - you may be different according to the inner laws of your letter: For though, as a meek herald, or a diligent postman, or a parcel-deliverer, one may step out like a chubby spoon-button to the jumbo street-front, and hide his established propositions behind his cowardly silence, yet in the arranged bargaining of his calculations he may meddle, and be reduced to a petty trifle of nought: he may be a trickster, or a bold liar!

    Yet nowadays they can be deceitful tyrants, profiteering turncoats, for who would only try to convey the immortal testimonies of writing as an antenna, what else could he be but a mouth-breathing clown, a romantic dog, a ref...

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    I lost myself and left each of my peer.

    It was the moment, You through a leer.....


    With regards Nitin Mukesh 💗💗💗


    11  1
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    Everything is still dark now. The pearls of heaven are extinguished, and in the rich darkness of the sulphur the wind tears and roars with fierce teeth. Man huddles like a caterpillar in a warming shelter, and seldom speaks. I should stand by the gears of receding Time, with hope-lost enduring doubt, piteous sorrow pervades; among men a ghost-shadow that wanders hesitatingly, crawls round me, while the jelly of fish scales is the jelly of the dew.

    These hours can no longer give me comforting, tamed sleep On the edge of open-mouthed chasms, Like a wavering tightrope walker I balance myself nor in this pitiless blindness Can my prophetic word penetrate. My language: this rich dictionary of words is now frozen, rooted in the holy land of silent utterances: now stupidity is still among us like a contagious disease, a mass article of cheaply driven masses!

    They spread like an inviting pestilence, or a pestilence, and no alliance of unknown friendships...

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    Bitterly you keep silent. Every day you cry like an orphaned child. People's forgiving confessor yet out there half-crazed idiots can rage with glee. Here it's still tempting that you haven't become a criminal-thief after all, my friend, that you're still working - true enough - in miserable conditions for a starvation-wage container that's slowly taking you to the bottom of massive underworld misery - while your heart remains crusty and honest.

    Thy sacrificial humiliation may still be thy portion, And like a yoke of brutes, soon the vulgar pains of a mischievous play Will soon break into wheels. Thy feet, like elephant's trunks, can scarcely tread, they are swollen with water - and only thy childish imagination alone can be free: thy independence, if any, is guaranteed by thy dreams alone.

    Wearily you still trudge home in the evening, and in your ears rings the calling canary-sigh of your blessed Dearest, who from your fr...

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