The Gypsy

the joy of living free, as free as a bird......
Here it goes....

I pass the paths, only broken so far,
lost somewhere in the speedy, destined cars.
As free as the rag-pickers, I recite my song,
expectant of little courtesy, only pennies do throng.
A little bread from here and there,
some smile, while others do glare.
Have begged everything, but smiles, from all,
not settled like homes, my life does not crawl.
No belongings, no property, no greed, no lust,
no longings, no woes, no ageing, no rust.
Orphaned, young, the rules of a home were devoid,
i have roamed since then, witnessing sorrows, joys in life's ellipsoid.
Oblivious of what goes on, in the world,
I search for the joy, where they search for the gold.
The boulevards, lonely and curved,
beg me to settle, have my family and raise some cattle.

But then, the spirit shall be lost,
surprises and adventures gone with responsibilities' frost.
I shall continue my un-aimed tourney,
unfettered, unscathed, unfazed by temptations,
to bring about the smiles on faces that see me.

I lost my way

Fifth Sem begins so begin the boring classes. Wrote this in one of them...

Overwhelmed with the rousing applause,
smiling, hoping were the expectant brows.
The boy will cross the woods, they smilingly said,
terrains, slopes and the thickness, he will tread.
A sword was conferred, that would guard my back,
out in the wild, the sick food I was to stack.
Stunned, I was, by the ecstatic aura,
the brooks, the ponds, the fauna and flora.
The vigour, the bigger it got,
as, towards the wild, I began my trot.
Beauty overpowers the transient fears,
so beautiful seems the life, no tortures, no tears.
But, finally, I had it enough,
there the smooth home, but here it was rough.
Homesickness, that drowsy feeling, erupted,
tears trickled, as the determined mind corrupted.
Sighed I was, as I sighted a thorpe,
low in spirits, I decided to stop.
They encouraged, strengthened me to
continue the search,
to explore the unknown, and
to discover the paths.
I passed through the villages,
people helping me on the way,
extending all the inspirations,
allowing me for the one-night stays.
I saw her working in the fields,
her muddy hands, the sweating glands,
the traditional dress; the heavenly bliss.
Spent a few days at hers', we laughed, we giggled,
and the journey I undertook was, so forgotten.
But I woke up, broke up and continued the foray,
lost, I am, among distractions around, where my path is lay.

The Ash

Wrote this poem at the end of last semester(fourth)... probably in some of the classes.

As lifeless as the body which nowadays,
rising in the wind, do the ashes play,
the wind of transition has taken its toll,
in terms of a life that was perfectly on a roll.

Beholded had his eyes,time and a pain,
the job at the grave was solely to blame,
so into the life and so near the death,
regular were the people who taken their last breath.

Down-to-earth is a man,
who witnesses deaths in the human clan,
in the hue and cry of 'limited time',
his exploits, his evils, does he ban.

His daughter had excelled at educational levels,
as if in the dark night, a knight unravels,
But eclipsed has this knight unravelled,
the poverty line, through their bellies, travelled.
The pennies, the alms he got from the crying souls,
barely drove the house that stood on rickety wooden poles.
Never he prayed for the people to die,
though in those hues and cries, did his money lie.

Persistent smoke, suffocated his lungs now,
frail health, penny wealth, frowned his brows.
The bright future called upon his daughter,
the education, the knowledge that still eluded their lineage.

All to a day, when utensils rusted,
the cot trembled, and the tolerance tested,
the decision had to be taken,
no longer did he go to the grave,
for now the spirit was gone,and
broken were expectations from the fate,
that had once, made his feet stiff and brave.

Deaths became paltry in those days,
the cruel fate sometimes no bait,
somebody had to be rituatlised,
his lovely daughter needed the help,
a candle newly lit, the wick demanded,
the thread to the top.

"Me", trickeled down from his thirsty lips,
as thundrously, to life, the death pips.
Her face grew pale, the permission was negative,
how could she see him dying, just for the money,
that the neighborhood would give,
but he won't understand, the urge to do good for his blood,
the little angel, who, taking his motherly finger had, always tread,
how could she let him, the God she had known.

To him, his body seemed as a dilapidated log,
but direly wanted his spirit, to give her,
the furniture even if it was out of a mite-d wood.

Secretly he kissed the princess, while she was asleep,
the pills he took, he knew, would make her weep,
but the money the people would pay as the tribute,
would make her life easily en route.
All happened as he had thought, and
she still carries his ash,
calm, helping as he always was,
his face, always in front of her eyes,
today, as she nestles on the top.