Time and Life to Death

Filth, they call it ubiquitous;
obnoxious. On streets,
in heaps, in lanes, scattered.
Life goes daily, usually on,
oblivious of filth,
or death,
goes on with ease.
Unfettered feet, undaunted –
of pilgrims, of people,
with purpose, or strollers
The timeless lanes,
narrow, space ample
for all who come,
who live and die there.
Disgusting, the filth,
reflected sometimes, on faces.
Cow dung, house waste,
refuse and grime,
Scattered, removed,
then scattered again,
repeat performance,
seen and felt
on skin, in nose, on feet through eyes.
Yet feet go on,
undaunted, eternally,
as time and life run to death,
from flesh to fire to ashes.

 

My River Rests

My river rests, soundless;
no wind blows.
Darkness, a distant din,
wave-twinkling bulbs –
Those bulbs, the stars
and the distant glow
of city lights, orange-red
over silver-black sands.
Black is the colour of darkness
that they say.
Black is the colour,
definitely, always.
Black is the colour of darkness,
night and day.
Black it is,
but black of un-fixed hue.
Some are the nights,
when the river flows
Under the moonless sky,
the black of tar.
Some are the times
that see the black with blue.
Such is the colour of night
while the young moon glows.
Some are the nights of light –
lamps near and far,
Lend light to sky black;
black river too.

 

Rajnish Mishra

Rajnish Mishra

Rajnish Mishra has a PhD in English literature and he has been active in the areas of teaching, research and writing for over a decade now. He runs an ezine: PPP Ezine to promote poetry and poets.

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