Brink Of Eternity

In desperate hope I go and search for her
in all the corners of my room;
I find her not.

My house is small
and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,
and seeking her I have to come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
plunge it into the deepest fullness.
Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
in the allness of the universe.


Rabindranath Tagore

Strange Fits Of Passion Have I known

Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eye I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
'O mercy!' to myself I cried,
'If Lucy hould be dead!'


William Wordsworth

Words Of Lie

Another knot on white rope tied,
Ah! With new words she lied.
To hide one, before she told,
Sameness of a paper fold.

Words left at own chosen speed,
And enamored would heed.
Truth she knew in heart deep,
over which never she weep.

Fathomless to herself, why?
Cognizant of truth, she lie.
For words of truth to say,
Stood she powerless in dismay.

Lies fused in charm, she beguiled,
Nurturing a beast wild.
Feeding with her foxy delight,
and sly persuasive might.

Caged in lie bricked wall,
Strong so, never will fall.
Never will the beast die,
And so the words of lie.


Baleshwar Singh

Tainted Love

And it was night
She twinkled me with surprise,
Words came out to my delight,
From heart of fiend in disguise

For me, she was chaste,
For love, started the trials,
Poison from lips was sweetest of taste,
Clutched my heart in deceitful wiles.

Divine wind of time flew,
Lifting up her wicked veil,
Resenting spite and stew,
My wrath for her now hail.

I plant oleander in garden,
And water it with my tears,
No worth vivid in Pardon,
And so remains with her guilt and fears.

Baleshwar Singh

A Thing Of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.


John Keats

Missing Person where did you go??

Saw him tired but walking from very far,
Worst in condition like a prisoner of war,
Blanket in hand and torn fiber over the meat,
Seemed a beggar, barefooted in the heat,
Scorching sun and body in sweat,
Water was elixir, if he could get...

Exhausted, on parapet of resort he seated,
Seeing him a gardener got agitated,
Showing no humanity from inside,
Gardener poured water on him with might,
Body drenched and blanket was wet,
At that night how could he have slept ?..

Depth of despair broke him into cry,
Tears fell in abundance from his eye,
Without looking back, not even talking,
Drenched, wet eyed old man started walking,
His heart playing symphony of agony,
Mercy shall fall on such brutality...

Whole sight was satanic and eyesore,
That pain painted on core of my soul,
I am tormented by the nightmares,
Searching for a question unclear,
Missing Person where did u go??
Are you alive? I don't know...


Baleshwar Singh

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Door To Redemption

He sat beside that door,
till sobbing from cry,
shivering on cold floor,
every when moon embarked sky.

Through cracks wind screamed,
and this door leads to salvation.
And in mind every sin streamed,
which one worthy of redemption?

Memory behind fallen curtain,
eyes weak, skin wrinkled and slack.
Heart plied with guilt and burden,
the hat, overcoat and trouser, all in black.

Alone, prepared for his own funeral,
counting for every sin, a night.
The door to him, not surreal,
and sat till the morning light.

A morning beside that door I see,
still, frozen, the man sat, eyes closed.
Smoke pipe in mouth, soul set free,
rushing of blood in veins halted.

Inside the door was chapel, red,
where once killing many, he fled.
Multitude of sins he owned,
every night over which he moaned.

His redemption had story to tell,
sins committed, but no more.
Every sin, ring church bell,
I count mine, you count your.


Baleshwar Singh

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on...he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud..."Say, father,say
If yet my task is done!"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but one more aloud,
"My father, must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way,

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound...
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Another Night

And its night again,
thoughts back to square one.
Time rewinds to where it began,
memories agonize as if shot of gun.
Hollowness pushing to the edge,
loneliness screaming from within.
Calmness of surface fully shed,
laying off tears lids are shivering.
Taking charge of me is apathy,
every bone feeling so cold.
Your face never gets fuzzy,
chilling sweat can’t even hold.
Just want this misery to hibernate,
run hard in this blackness to zenith.
Just want to feel my flesh vibrate,
and smother every memory down beneath.

Baleshwar Singh

Love's Secret

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.

William Blake

Autumn – A Requiem

Oh! The autumn has arrived
wrapped upon the layers of winter
Pathways filled with separated souls
Garden becomes colorless
Nature feels weariness
Wind hover without claps
Oh! Thee tender leaves
Thy trees go arid and pale
Little chirpers : they flew away
Wind ambles from mighty Himalyas
Atmosphere grew thicker and chilly
and evening frightens with calmness
I could pluck every flower from garden
Alas! Autumn will hold though
Page from creator’s book will flip
and heavens watch earth painted green.

Baleshwar Singh

The Death Of All Tyrants

To the joy of masses
I pray the death of all tyrants
Drunk with promises in wine glasses
Nothing thou politico men but servants
Lost in thy dalliances
Sitting on four legs of shame
Justice smothered under thy alliances
Economy prized for thy hunger game.

Golden era will arrive.
And I raise the spirit of delight
Corruption fury stand no chance to survive
Oh people! Come and join me under the white light
I pray for grievances to dissolve
But people dig hard pits deep down
Time has come for suffering to resolve
We bury them and to hell these souls drown.

On thy graves I stand, thou hypocrites
Over my head sun of freedom shines
I show thou word full of grits
I pray with every meal peace dines.

Baleshwar Singh

Victim Of My Own Past

With the echoes of myriad mistakes in my head,
I  walk through the skeptical path,
answers unknown to where am I led,
here I stand as the victim of my own past.

Lost at all points of authority,
the sound of broken cracks painted in my thought,
need a place to find the broken pride and integrity,
here I stand as the victim of my own past.

Consumed beneath the guilt of broken expectations,
insomnia is all I have got left,
haunted by nightmares of my own reflections,
here I stand as the victim of my own past.

Inside me, perished trust in god I  found,
belief of my existence felt apart,
like legacy of a king left unbound,
here I  stand as victim of my own past.

When at times I  look behind,
can’t retrieve a moment to cherish,
five feet beneath earth will  I  find?,
but I ’m waiting for my time to perish.
Here I’m the Victim Of my own past.

Baleshwar Singh