Poetry

Hope

She looked at me

With full of hope,

Finally, I read her a story

From Oscar Wilde.

‘A Nightingale and the Rose’

A story of real love

In the unreal world.

How Nightingale pressed her breast

To make the rose crimson

In the gelid winter.

She listened quietly

Felt moved and cried,

And let the last petal fall down

On the ground, from her hand

The last one, treasured and perfumed

With glistening hope,

But, not now.

As it swept away

Far from the unreal world,

To the real.

I took the dried petal

And placed it in her book,

Which she held close to her heart!

Modern Reality

Modern World: fed up, insatiable, and ungratified,

Aims one, desires a lot,

Humanity turned into inhuman,

Not ready to renounce selfishness,

Money a reason of all crimes;

Happiness seems miles away now.

To possess glimmering world is the sole purpose,

Nursing grudges, grievances against everyone,

And ahead to spill blood,

Never step back to ponder aftermath dire consequence.

Smile that first played in family,

Turned into smack of hatred now,

Oblivious of misery of own,

But ready to sacrifice for war cry.

1922

A year full of changes and apprehensions,

But begot fruit sweet,

Two giants and their magnum opus,

It created a storm, set history anew,

Not everyone could conceive its amorphous frame,

It entailed wit to solve the riddle,

To get juice of sweet fruit,

Sharp whetting wisdom sought.

It left all unsucceeded in the beginning,

But many succeeded,

Acquainted the world to intellectual mind,

To their ingenuity of genius.

One was the joy of Joyce,

The other elated Eliot,

Ulysses set milestone and embarked infallible journey,

All for nothing but created a Wasteland.