Poetry Month

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P1100665Poem walks in the Deserted Streets at Night.

P1100444P1100442Fragrance of Spring Blooms Camellia smiles through my window the soft pink petals bloom the paths are covered with lilac lavender.

Two eyes look through the window
amazed at the benedictions of the nature.
I smell the fragrance of poetry blooming in April
as always and everyday a new poem
is being written on the petals of the flowers
and  on the fresh green leaves.

The two naked eyes of a woman can still see
through the parted curtains
through the iron bars of the traditions.

In this poetry season so many things
hang around on the tip of my pen

pulsating to form a poem:                                                                                                                       A woman is still being stoned somewhere                                                                           a woman is still being raped somewhere
a woman is being beaten to death somewhere

People are seeking freedom of thought
freedom of speech freedom to live                                                                                               seeking safety, respect and dignity                                                                                                   running for their lives                                                                                                                           disowning their countries                                                                                                                 seeking asylum from other lands                                                                                              drowning in the ocean on the way to freedom                                                                                   and dying instead.

Poetry month will go on and                                                                                                          many hearts wailing would go on                                                                                                       under the dark skies                                                                                                                                 a poem walks through the deserted places                                                                                         on the blood drenched streets of the city                                                                                             where every night shooting happens like fire crackers
and every night a number of young boys are injured                                                                    and one or two lost their lives….

I want to pen all the sadness and pain.                                                                                                 I want to tell the lamenting and crying mother                                                                                        whose heart bleeds with her young son                                                                                                             caught in between the cross-firing of madness                       if my words can stop her heart bleeding….

A new poem is being written                                                                                                          about all the centuries old issues                                                                                                  while thinking poetry in the moment                                                                                         frozen in the dead of the night
walking on the concrete sidewalk
I just stumbled on a big pothole                                                                                                        and fell backward landed on my right wrist.

And after… …                                                                                                                                               I could not even hold a pen in my hand                                                                                                   not even the mouse neither could I click                                                                                     with my fingers those letters                                                                                                               on the keyboard  to form a poem!

And the poetry month would be gone by                                                                                           leaving me with this incomplete poem and pain.

And the poem continues.

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