Fourteen nights he spent at the Himalayas great,
each night speaking about one world;
He touched topics good and bad, spoke at length of fate;
A ‘secret’ the last day unfurled.
‘We have our souls quite well covered
by a layer we all call body,’ he declared.
Then as if smitten by thoughts, roared:
Life’s uncertain, what matters is now, not how you fared.
The men who dwell on land theirs state they have an open mind;
No trouble may happen upon they feel; ‘We are always kind!’
Some biding with those men but sense there is something amiss;
They say they’re having a tough time; ‘A thing or two we miss.’
What makes a woman a mother?
Oh, pain and patience will I say;
She sure knows not how to other
or to keep care and warmth away.
Oh! A mother hits not the hay
when her kids are hungry or sad;
Embodies love, for kids does pray.
A mother’s selfless, with love clad.
Hangs a mirror on the wall of the abode seen
with a demeanour mystic, queer, fine, indiscreet.
Shows it to each who sits in front a stolen sheet,
telling truths revealed to none, a shaming scene.
Oh! The past returns to haunt those who there have been.
So these nights we try hard to conquer
the evils that make us go astray;
We worship all deities to prosper,
to live lives with joy, to win each fray.
The Sun shines silently, scattering light
as we sit ourselves down by the sea
that shows the sky sempiternal.
The sea seems to say something,
something that shall surprise.
State I solemnly,
‘Sea, speak thy mind’
Buzz bees about as bombs blast, boom!
The letter ‘B’ brazen bickers and boos.
Be that as it may, beings work not be.
Breaching banks, blare bays, that d’you see?
You know quite well there are minds that suffer;
Those minds, it is trowed, are anxious and sad.
But why d’you judge, mock those minds at supper?
Ween I what you do is shameless and bad.
Let me tell you what transpired once, dear lad:
A few years ago, I’d willed to take my life;
for days seemed like years, those years made me mad.
Struggle hard the mantra then and tackle each strife.
Covering this world
like garnishes dishes need,
it’s round us and mid.
the place is weensy, pure white;
And there’s gardyloo.