These are days, and those days were days too,
Divergent, different…separated by a thin but significant line of dew.
Then – There was no time to look for time, work was all that was in line,
Living selflessly for others, others were the only thing mine.
In jest, when I used to search for the world, in the scenes of thought-stills,
The motherhood of Mother Nature used to set behind the hills…
In the lap of its softness and silence, the white dove of my thoughts used to sleep,
The lap of eternity, the lullaby so soft and sweet…a nap so deep.
It was, hence, easy to find pleasure and relaxation in work though,
Sleepless but rested, moving towards another confident tomorrow.
Followed by another evening…an evening that used to slip into my book…
And transform itself into a poem – meaningful and beautiful in its look.
Now – There’s all the time in the world, no plight, no fight,
In a selfish life where I live just for my own, death is in sight!
The world searches for me now, under dim stars, with a candle in hand,
But why is all this no more than a bed of briars and sand?
Running away from blessings, and seeking blasted briar-fields and deserted mess,
No scope of candle-light here, this is the land of darkness.
I can still sleep, though there’s no soft lullaby – Mother Nature at its best…
But alas! This slumber doesn’t bring with it any rest.
New pages of my book – like a dove – white, wordless…have everything worthless I bet!
But not a poem yet…
Isn’t this a poem though?
No, a poem has life…this has death.
So, not a poem yet…
Not a poem yet…
Woh bhi din the, aur ye bhi din hain…
Do paraaye desh, beech mein lakeer jaise kuch pal-chinn hain.
Tab - Fursat khojne ki fursat na thi, aur kaam ko hi apna jaante the.
Doosron ke liye jeete the, aur doosron ko hi apna maante the.
Kaam-kaam mein yuhin, dhoondhne sansaar ko kabhi jo nikalte the,
Prakruti ko bante dekh mamta ka aanchal, suhaawane din jo dhalte the,
Jawaan nisha ka sarovar is hans ko gale lagaa kahaaniyan sunaata…
Aur fursat se susajjit ek pyaari god mein sulaa, meethi loriyaan gaata.
Kaam mein hi aaraam ko dhoondh liya karte hum,
Aur bina soye hi agle din ki or badhaate drudh kadam.
Agli shyaam bhi aati, aur phir, sapnon ki kitaab mein aap hi samaa,
Sundar kavita ban jaati.
Ab - Bas fursat hi fursat hai, kaam se ab kaun lade hai?
Sirf apne liye jeete hain, aur maut ki or shaayad chal pade hain.
Sansaar ab mombatti le, dhundle sitaaron ke neeche dhoondha karta hai hamen,
Par jaane kyon yeh sab kuch kaanton sa akharta hai hamen?
Aashirwaad ki god se bhaagte hue, wahan chale jahan kaante boye hain,
Ujaale ka koi kaam nahin, hum ab andheron mein hi khoye hain.
Neend ab bhi aati hai, bina loriyon ke hi sahi,
Haay! Is neend mein zaraa sa aaraam nahin…
Meri kitaab ke naye panne - hans hi ki tarah safed aur nishabd! Sab kuch hai ab,
Par kavita nahin banti…
Kya yeh kavita nahin?
Shaayad nahin…kavita mein jeevan hota hai, mrityu nahin…
So, yeh kavita nahin…ab tak to nahin…
Ab tak to nahin…
Divergent, different…separated by a thin but significant line of dew.
Then – There was no time to look for time, work was all that was in line,
Living selflessly for others, others were the only thing mine.
In jest, when I used to search for the world, in the scenes of thought-stills,
The motherhood of Mother Nature used to set behind the hills…
In the lap of its softness and silence, the white dove of my thoughts used to sleep,
The lap of eternity, the lullaby so soft and sweet…a nap so deep.
It was, hence, easy to find pleasure and relaxation in work though,
Sleepless but rested, moving towards another confident tomorrow.
Followed by another evening…an evening that used to slip into my book…
And transform itself into a poem – meaningful and beautiful in its look.
Now – There’s all the time in the world, no plight, no fight,
In a selfish life where I live just for my own, death is in sight!
The world searches for me now, under dim stars, with a candle in hand,
But why is all this no more than a bed of briars and sand?
Running away from blessings, and seeking blasted briar-fields and deserted mess,
No scope of candle-light here, this is the land of darkness.
I can still sleep, though there’s no soft lullaby – Mother Nature at its best…
But alas! This slumber doesn’t bring with it any rest.
New pages of my book – like a dove – white, wordless…have everything worthless I bet!
But not a poem yet…
Isn’t this a poem though?
No, a poem has life…this has death.
So, not a poem yet…
Not a poem yet…
Yeh koi kavita nahin (in Hindi)
Do paraaye desh, beech mein lakeer jaise kuch pal-chinn hain.
Tab - Fursat khojne ki fursat na thi, aur kaam ko hi apna jaante the.
Doosron ke liye jeete the, aur doosron ko hi apna maante the.
Kaam-kaam mein yuhin, dhoondhne sansaar ko kabhi jo nikalte the,
Prakruti ko bante dekh mamta ka aanchal, suhaawane din jo dhalte the,
Jawaan nisha ka sarovar is hans ko gale lagaa kahaaniyan sunaata…
Aur fursat se susajjit ek pyaari god mein sulaa, meethi loriyaan gaata.
Kaam mein hi aaraam ko dhoondh liya karte hum,
Aur bina soye hi agle din ki or badhaate drudh kadam.
Agli shyaam bhi aati, aur phir, sapnon ki kitaab mein aap hi samaa,
Sundar kavita ban jaati.
Ab - Bas fursat hi fursat hai, kaam se ab kaun lade hai?
Sirf apne liye jeete hain, aur maut ki or shaayad chal pade hain.
Sansaar ab mombatti le, dhundle sitaaron ke neeche dhoondha karta hai hamen,
Par jaane kyon yeh sab kuch kaanton sa akharta hai hamen?
Aashirwaad ki god se bhaagte hue, wahan chale jahan kaante boye hain,
Ujaale ka koi kaam nahin, hum ab andheron mein hi khoye hain.
Neend ab bhi aati hai, bina loriyon ke hi sahi,
Haay! Is neend mein zaraa sa aaraam nahin…
Meri kitaab ke naye panne - hans hi ki tarah safed aur nishabd! Sab kuch hai ab,
Par kavita nahin banti…
Kya yeh kavita nahin?
Shaayad nahin…kavita mein jeevan hota hai, mrityu nahin…
So, yeh kavita nahin…ab tak to nahin…
Ab tak to nahin…
