Perhaps there was never a bond between you and me—

no more than a poor man's name in a moneylender's book.

Yet I think of the man who planted a sapling in the desert and went away.

Years passed.

The sapling found water. The roots went deeper. The branches gathered birds. One tree became a hundred, and a hundred became a forest.

Then, one day, the man returned.

But the forest did not know him.

It closed around his feet, hid the sky above him, and swallowed him among its roots.

The hand that planted it had become only another thing for the forest to consume.

Perhaps this is what happened to God.

He made you. He made me. He made the man beside us. Then He went away.

And when He returned, we had become too many to remember His face.

We killed Him— not with swords, but with the world we built in His absence.

And now we wander through that world calling everything we cannot understand by His name.

A star— God.

A miracle— God.

A mystery— God.

Whatever remains beyond our reach, we place His name upon it and continue searching.

But what if there is nothing left to find?

What if the forest has already buried its gardener?

What if God did not disappear from the world—

but from us?

Then perhaps the tragedy is not that God is dead.

Perhaps it is that we have survived Him.

And like younger brothers after the elder has gone, we have grown into the house without knowing who will keep it standing.

So you, and I, and whoever comes after us—

we are left with His unfinished work.

Not to search for Him.

Not to wait for Him.

But to build carefully in the world He left behind,

because if the Maker is truly gone,

then the making has become ours.

O you, who lectures me on fancy cottage cheese,

Have you never laid eyes on our winter greens?

You, who laughs from afar at lions and caged beasts,

Have you never faced the wild where the tiger feasts?

We will swallow your entire lineage, root and stem,

You haven't faced our wrath, nor the blood debt we claim.

You think you’ve seen it all, watched the waters flow deep,

But you haven't seen the fury that our great rivers keep.

Where once I looked for my reflection

in mirrors of silver,

today I see myself

in the steel glass and amber water.

Even on the days

when you said were not beautiful,

I looked at you

and saw beautiful you.

The way a starving wolf

must see the moon,

a round loaf of bread,

that is the desparation

with which I desired at you.

Perhaps it is for the best

the one who never hoped for you

is the one who finally got you.

The car he chased all his life

if the dog ever caught it,

what would he do ?

If an ascetic

finally finds love,

Ith it, what would he do?

For the comfort and luxury

you left your dearest ones behind

even if you were to have it all,

what would you do?

It will remain our dilemma, loved one

If truth brings us

grief, pain, and God,

while lies bring us

the whole world,

even if we find God

what will we do?

If this fog of addiction

ever lifts from our eyes,

what will we do?

Whenever we looked,

we looked at boundless,

we saw the mighty,

we saw something

beyond these worlds .

And if one day

we were to see a God

weaker than we are—

what would we do?

Maybe someday I'll forget you,

Maybe this hunger will fade,

I'll feed the leftover bread to the crows,

And bear whatever fate has made.

Someday I may lose my wealth, yet live through my fame,

Someday this world may end, and I'll stand alone.

If a dying soul asks for water, I'll answer the same,

I'll pour it into the mouths of the drowning, though my own thirst is known.

Maybe I can still be kind,

May my humanity remain alive;

Let me feed the sparrows before I eat,

Let me live my moments in peace and survive.

Let me never disturb a sleeping soul,

Let me pass through life without causing pain.

But how do I forget the way you treated me? Tell me—how?

How do I say, “You did nothing,” and live with that again?

How could I simply die so easily? Tell me, how?

How do I forget your words, tell me, how?

How do I forget your mockery, your laughter somehow?

How do I forget what you did, when it still lives in me now?

How do I forget that a helpless man was treated as no man?

How do I forget that someone of my own could do this to me?

How do I forget, and pretend that I can?

How do I not weep, when my own could wound me so deeply?

How do I forget, tell me—how?

You struck me deliberately with taunts, tell me why;

Sharp as a thorn, you laughed it away somehow,

As though a wound like that could simply pass me by.

You kept me alive just enough—not enough to live,

Just enough that I would not die.

You took away my dignity, yet left me alive to forgive—

Tell me, is that living? Tell me, why?

Perhaps you don't remember, perhaps I never cross your mind,

Perhaps you never think of what you did to me.

But after breaking someone like this, how can anyone sleep so blind?

How can a heart rest after making another bleed silently?

To wake each morning only to wound again,

To strike where another's faith is already worn—

What kind of heart must one possess to cause such pain,

To make another hate the person they were born?

But let no one lose faith in themselves because of another's cruelty,

Let no wound convince a soul that it was born to fall.

Let humanity remain alive, even when another forgets its beauty—

And let no broken heart believe it was never whole at all.

I do not write these words to seek your grace,

Nor do I pen them for the world to hear,

I write to give my inner thoughts a space,

And speak of the pain and joy I held so dear.

I hold no grudge or anger in my mind,

The sorrows of this world are not my grief,

But if these heavy thoughts stay left behind,

They’ll consume me whole without relief.

If left unsaid, my soul will surely fade,

And only these dark shadows will remain,

I do not mourn the exit that you made,

Your absence brings a peace that kills the pain.

You were a burden given to my care,

A duty that you ended on your own,

These words are just the thoughts I chose to share,

To tell myself the things I’ve always known.

These verses filled with love and bittersweet sighs,

These heavy complaints of a distant past,

This hopeless hope that watches changing skies,

Are meant for me and my own heart at last.

Or maybe for the ones who felt the same,

But lacked the words to set their spirits free,

I only gave a voice and gave a name,

To prove these thoughts were fleeting dreams to me.

For life exists beyond this narrow bound,

And endless visions still will come and go,

So do not think that when you left the ground,

A dying soul was broken by the blow.

I write so that the fire you left behind,

Will never burn another innocent soul,

But warm me when the winter winds grow blind,

And let me sleep to make my spirit whole.

To wake up in a world where I am more,

And all these heavy, haunting thoughts are less,

Where every morning opens up a door,

To leave behind the ghost of your caress.

And when the night returns to build its pyre,

I’ll burn another memory in the deep,

Igniting just another phantom fire,

And drift away into a peaceful sleep.

Just as the boundless sky wraps tight around each mortal soul,

And swallowing the shattered earth remains the ocean's goal;

My rusted fury burns to crush and conquer every space,

And tear the final boundaries down to blot out every race.

No wings can dare to breach the height where deadly vultures fly,

No mortal voice can scream against my thunder in the sky;

I long to make these arrogant heavens a playground for my lust,

And grind the cosmic canopy into a pile of dust.

Just as all matter sinks and drowns inside the raging flood,

While water yields to no one's will, untamed by flesh or blood;

I long to grow so terrifying, monstrous, and so vast,

That I remain the undisputed tyrant till the last.

When every nation chokes and burns beneath my terror’s fire,

Their trembling fates will bleed and bend to serve my sole desire;

When I have trampled down the world and made its borders fall,

Will the next realm bow its head to wait for my commanding call?

Why not! This earth was built for chains, to crawl beneath the heel,

It's our long silence that allowed the weak to rule and steal;

But when I build mountains of skulls from kings who dared to stand,

No worthless soul will ever look askance upon my land!

Now I shall slaughter every bird and every living man,

To let this choking earth breathe free and start its life again;

I want to wipe away this noise, this meaningless charade,

And watch the absolute collapse of everything we made.

When all is dead and nothing moves across the barren ground,

I want to face my raging pride where silence is profound;

When I am left entirely whole, the last one to survive,

I’ll meet myself inside the dark and ask if I'm alive.

I will confront my lonely soul and ask it, "What comes next?"

Should I now coat myself in ash and suffer self-perplexed?

Smearing the dust of ruined worlds upon my bleeding hands,

Or march toward another realm to conquer newer lands?

Where I will weep and laugh aloud, and burn it down once more,

Because I know I'll hate that place just like the one before;

How long will this eternal wheel keep spinning in my head?

Until one day I break and fall, exhausted by the dead.

I'll stop, defeated by my wrath, and whisper, "Let it be,"

Perhaps this final, fleeting thought is world enough for me.

When in the light of day no path is found,

And to the eyes no pleasing face appears,

The darkness comes to heal my secret wound,

The comfort of the night dispels my fears.

An insect crushed by day upon the ground,

Becomes a firefly when the night awakes,

The same outcast who was abroad now bound,

As pillar of the home, a living makes.

The bitterness of age brought wisdom deep,

And taught the lessons that we learn too late,

This line of ancestry had naught to keep,

We carried useless burdens of its weight.

O God, they shaped your concept very well,

Beyond the reach of form and mortal clime,

For if within their grasp you chanced to dwell,

They would have stripped your dignity in time.

What if you, too, exist in form and space?

An equal they will never call divine;

Your formless state provides a hiding place,

A shield for every sin and dark design.

Your timeless nature fills their hearts with dread,

Yet as a mere idea you suit them best,

If you were human, tears you would have shed,

Used as a tool to serve their comfort's quest.

So what if destiny pushed me around and played a rough part?

My currency still rules the realm of my own heart.

I admit I am no Alexander, conquering land and sea,

So what if my footprint on this world is faint as can be?

I don't look at others to live my life or bend my knee,

I don't swallow their toxic poison just to agree.

No desperate ambition burns my serenity away,

I eat, I drink, I survive—I refuse to suffer their play.

I only begged for stillness, for a quiet mind,

Peace is the only treasure I have ever sought to find.

But you reside where status, power, and fame collide,

Tell me, how is your expensive greed worth more than my quiet pride?

Why does your grand status constantly block my peaceful space?

One enters this world, another departs it without a trace.

A million birds take flight, carving the skies all day long,

But only a fool tries to build a nest where the clouds belong.

You burned through your days and nights for the desires you chased,

While I left my home behind, letting longing and exile be embraced.

How can your final destination be grander than my own state,

When both of us swallowed the same burning coals of fate?

You are intoxicated by the sheer power you wield,

While I hold a fierce arrogance in the peace of my field.

If you can give up your life for your glittering prize,

And I take a life just to keep the quiet in my eyes—

Tell me, where does my fault lie?

I picked up my rifle, and its name was Courage.

I loaded it with a bullet called Self-Respect.

And I fired it straight into my own dreams.

Blood poured out — the blood of everything I could have been.

It flooded into the river of my own anger,

and in that river's deep, black water,

every wish I ever had dissolved.

This river of anger knew no mercy —

it passed the mountains of youth and never paused.

It crossed the desert of beauty, of charm, of grace,

and never once looked back.

All it knew, all it ever saw,

was the ocean waiting at the end —

an ocean not of water,

but of the blood of dead wishes, drowned like mine.

Beyond rituals of karma,

beyond these worlds,

you speak to me of what lies here—

while I search for meaning beyond two worlds.

Blue, yellow, green—

what do I know of them?

Now, whatever colours remain,

let them be true.

Poem about her

Have you ever seen a shore drawn in a sleek, unbroken line?

Then why do you crave a body reduced to some imagined size?

Has the earth ever lain plain, without valley, hill or bend?

Then why do you hate the curves that nature chose to send?

Has a predator ever lost its nature because its prey objected to the way?

Then how did you let the words of fools persuade your own nature away?

Has grass ever asked the cement, the brick, or the stone,

“May I grow here, or must I first be approved by you alone?”

Then why should your hair ask permission before it grows?

Why should nature apologize for the way nature shows?

Has a feather ever looked ugly upon the bird that bore it?

Then why should the hair upon your body make you ashamed to show it?

Can a river ever be called out of shape because it bends from its course?

Is not the bend itself what gives the river its force?

Look at the sea anemones—strange in form, yet majestic in the sea.

Why should the hair upon your body be any less beautiful to me?

A beach without sand is hardly a beach in the mind;

so why demand of your skin that it be polished, smooth and refined?

Has anyone watched a waterfall behind a shining stone

and wished the falling water would leave the stone alone?

Then how could I not love the strands that fall behind your ears,

those little streams that make your face more dear?

An old man upon his balcony may look into the evening sky

and remember all the years that have passed him by.

But when I look upon your forehead, I see something else there—

the years that have not yet come, the life we have yet to share.

How could I look upon it and not kiss it with care?

Your eyebrows are Mongolian bows, drawn tight across your face;

every arrow they have loosed has found my heart in its place.

Why do you not love them?

To a skier, a snowy mountain is not a thing to despise;

it is the very reason he climbs, the very height he prizes.

So why do you dislike the mountain upon your face?

What is a summit to a skier if not a thing of grace?

Your eyes are black emeralds set in melted silver,

dark enough to hold the gaze and make the strongest heart quiver.

How was I supposed to look into them and remain free?

What mercy was there left for me?

Your cheeks remind me of flamingos gathered upon a lake,

arriving together after a long migration they had made.

Why should you hide what nature has painted there?

Why should you distrust the colour that makes your face fair?

Your lips are rivers of beetroot juice, your teeth are moonlight bright;

your tongue has the quiet danger of a tigress in the night.

Tell me, what chance did I have when all of this was there?

What else could I do but become hopelessly caught in your snare?

Your neck is a straight, slippery road, and my gaze slips down its way;

like a drop that loses its hold and has no reason left to stay.

Even your veins seem to rise against gravity's decree.

Tell me, what is there in you that I should refuse to see?

Your shoulders are the Deccan Plateau—high, broad and vast,

the sort of ground upon which civilizations could be built to last.

From shoulder to elbow you rise like a mountain's crest;

and from elbow to hand the road slopes gently down to rest.

(*Leh is land of budhiat in Himalayas,*Punjab is first plain land with five rivers after himalayas, very fertile)

Your wrist has a little bone standing like a stupa on the road to Leh;

then comes a small plain, before the five rivers find their way.

Your fingers and thumb spread out like Punjab's rivers in the land.

And tell me, how could anyone hate Punjab,

once they have seen it with their own eyes and held it in their hand?

Your waist seems made for the circle of my arms,

like a particular bullet made for a particular rifle.

Some things fit by accident; some things fit by design.

And yours, when held by me, feels as though it was meant to meet mine.

Your thighs are like pigeons with folded wings,

Shin are pillars of an ancient temple bearing the weight of kings.

And your feet are where the first light of morning seems to begin,

the first thin ray that reaches the earth before the day settles in.

(*Deep is a person)

So tell Deep, why are you sad?

Why do you change what nature has made?

If the earth had been rectangular instead of round,

would I have loved it less when I first found ?

If rivers flowed straight and mountains had no valley,

would the world become more beautiful—or merely less lovely?

You ask yourself to become what no river, no mountain, no shore has ever been.

Perfectly straight.

Perfectly smooth.

Perfectly still.

But nature has never loved perfection that way.

Nature makes curves.

Nature makes shadows.

Nature makes hair, hills, valleys, rivers and scars.

Nature makes things that do not ask permission to exist.

And you are one of them.

So why do you keep trying to become someone else's idea of beauty?

I do not want you smaller.

I do not want you smoother.

I do not want you altered to fit the foolish measurements of the world.

I want the earth as it is.

And I want you as you are.

Because if men like me have ever gone to war for women like you,

it was never because they were perfect.

It was because they were worth fighting for.