‘Khuli palak me jhoota gussa, bandh palak me pyar /
Jeena bhi mushkil, marna bhi mushkil….’
The old poets were right; life indeed is a stage,
Entire drama being played out, offstage and on,
While fate gets rehearsed, emotion never does,
All viscous is tears; only need to drip and flow,
Deep or wide, wrinkle is either a laugh or smile,
Rest can flow subterranean, like clue of prompt,
Distant, invisible, waiting, be useful on purpose,
Love is no play; mine was one in lack of space,
Asked to be your face, just got to be your mask,
Felt the heat of your sweat, not the why of it,
Sought to be your script, but got to be your plot,
A rare chance at rewrite, even to we puppets,
I could have been feelings, mere gestures it was,
Reading you from signals just like next stranger,
Grammar I aspired, but became your language,
To seek you beyond confines of noun and verb,
In that hail of fabric flora, write of me some day,
As the one true flower that struggles to be a fruit.
(2012)