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Right in the middle
of the troubled lands,
the intelligent brains
have won many accolades,
they have conquered the outer space,
yet the thinking hearts
are unable to win their minds;
with reason, none could find
a win-win way to concur,
a system robust and strong
not to kill and fight.
Strange that both are
so horribly right,
yet both, equally wrong.
In the countries recharged with animosity,
bitterness, and disaster, catapulted with
mindless weapons, devious arms
endorsing ceaseless killing, spilling of blood,
a poet, like a stranger, stretches its arms
and writes about the resurgence of friendship
in the peace-loving minds of the neighbors.
The reality is dark, things are falling apart
countries, as it were, are concentrating
on how to harm, how to hurt each other;
making the sellers of weapons richer
year after year, like Kalidasa, who was seen
cutting the branch of the tree on which he was sitting
they both are severing their own growths,
they’re sabotaging their own economies;
strange still that they'll continue to be
sincere enemies, no one, no citizen tells
the leaders to focus on growth, not to fight,
that killing is not winning, it is never right.
But the poet helplessly ignores all of this!
Perpetually in the winsome world,
permanently in bliss, paints a picture
of prosperity, opulence, and happiness;
the blind unjudging eyes see more
of understanding, of camaraderie,
like intoxicating, deep-rooted folklore,
the ears hear the appeal from the mosques
from the breaking dawn to the parting dusk,
they listen to the chants from the temples; therefore,
the poet sits on one corner like a child,
composes a world of its own on a piece of paper,
brings back all the fond memories,
establishes again the paradise on earth
not anymore occupied by intruders,
the poet imagines heaven, as it were,
bustling with the long-lost brothers and sisters.
Why is this simple thing a challenge,
the poet ponders, finds it strange.
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