The Destitute Battle field

Like split caracasses in a battle field,
some half dead -half dying ;
some yet to be born and yet to die;
some thrown in the realm of living dead
howling and begging and unheard,
in that crimsoned noon-tide
on that boodied dust,
their bodies blackening with blackened blood.



Their tortured souls hovering over,
brooding on a dim perisistent scale
mourning the futility , the
twisted necks and arms and wombs-
deformed, deprived, destitute.
The unborn- numbed, ghost like
dying in that deformity
learning the first lessons of life
or death? or death in life ?
or of life in death?



Like that destitute battlefield
packed with split caracasses ,
like a thousand dead hopes
split, damaged, uncomposed for ever
walks her body
in that crimsoned noon tide
on that bloodied dust.

Merci Mon Ami -2

A bright yellowish star,
pinkish in that dark, distanced horizon
separated by the void between the two worlds
is as destitute as me .

Crowded yet lonely,shining yet tenebrous
Like an airy hope,golden sand in hands,
floating on the remains of a devastation
broken yet hopeful and inspiring.

An ocean thirsting for an oaisis-unfair,
A store house lusting for air – unfair,
But gives still and gives.
Merci mon ami!


Ps- i am glad i found another coast.. the wind is friendlier ..hope for a long while ..forever doesnt exist!