Subtle Presence...

The hours of midnight relived,
and those walks cherished...
The decaying yellow eucalyptus,
the camouflaged layers of human waste,
and that trace, one inspired of
the earthly presence...

Slow,the spider looks from a distance,
it glides through the air,
seemingly defying the nature's laws...
Closer look on the marvel in front,
the silken twines and nature's hand...

It is the subtle presence,
that one feels,
from scrutiny one beseeches,
and in the inner realities,
me feels the apparent absence;

Me feels the apparent absence,
is where closer feel marks the presence...
The hours pass by,
I wake, and find myself in the noise, again asleep...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
16/12/2010

All Silence...

A silent sense confounds
a dormant yearning,
which muffled its cries for so long...
Amidst all the passing ridicule,
amidst all those passing jests,
and all that remained after all that
has touched upon, and now gone,
is still one that has been silently lined...

All silence,
false truth,
ignominy and heresy,
all that is left...
False belief,
cracked faith,
concocted devotion,
perverted view...

All silence,
sense amidst mute vision
gain amidst horrendous misgivings,
smile amidst all the liquid fate...
Rueful,restful and inert,
with broken limbs,
writhing in agony and shame...

Flared anger,
passion unfolding its venom,
injecting insensitive wrath into the veins of compassion...
Selfish designs,
motives of unknown minds,
mutual need,survival and thereupon greed...

All silence,
mute spectator,
silent stutter of formless words,
those anguished letters half-uttered,
half spat in distaste...
And now,filth running rivulets down
this pane of broken shards...
And conformed despondence and dejection
faced inspite of unsettling norms...

All silence,
amidst the convoluted names,
overlapped distortions,
humoungous failures unnamed...
Unheard thereof those false claims,
and our sagacious minds,
slumber in disdain...

All silence,
that is what remains,
inspite of uproar,
and all allegations which claim,
irony and respite,
rueful wrinkling of the stench ridden shame,
and all that passes between this
and the next walls,
is passivity,which shall forever remain...

Yes,all that shall forever remain,
all is plain silence...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Just a dream called 'When'...

When the lights go out
and everything will be dark,
all that we lived, and all
the troubles that sparked,
all the life we have tucked away
in the shelves of past,
will just be a dream...

And when the curtains fall,
or when the rains just stop,
the lemons of love and
the honeycombs of life begin to crop...
I say, in the middle of the sundown hour
I will remain then,
with those memories,
yes, I will remain, just
a lonely lad performing sorties...

Downtown when those streets
have given away to souls and dust,
spirits take over those dark spaces of the mind,
I mean when the heart has sunk,
to the grey zones of trepidations...
You know,those spots where the
last soot reminds of an aged old fire,
and the new cold Zephyr..
Amidst all the tweets and walls
covered with mosses from disuse...

I mean when the cracks set in,
into the once majestic beauty,
you see, creepers creep
into the age old memories of grandeur...
Then, you know, all shall be left,
covered, hidden away;
all the much sung past...

You see, then you wake,
wake up from that long sleep,
and find everything was,
and is, and shall forever be,
just a dream, called 'When'...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Placid Hearts...

Placid hearts travel through the valleys,
Cold and numb our limbs take us through this darkness..
Nocturnal chill, and placid hearts, I travel with the bards,
I travel through this world of sadness and sorrow,
I travel through all that smiles, and all that waves its beauty along…

You know when you love,
You know when you pray,
You know when you laugh,
And when you believe, and with faith utter
that whisper which says,
All that is there to believe, is truth,
Eternity is down, down in the darkest of alleys,
Where your tears flow away,
And those moments capture the colours divine,
When truth and love lets you cry…

You know the story of phoenix says,
You can never give up,
your fall is your birth,
You can never belong in despair…

Long yet beautiful journey,
it is still to come…
Failures won’t stop him,
who knows that mountains are like
Small humps of those roads,
that lead to home…
We who love that which gives us pain,
We who think of that which hurt us,
We who just know to be plain humans,
We know that there is nothing to be confounded about,
‘cos all our smiles lie across the oceans,
Like those waves infinite,
and those waves tell me that,
When your heart is open,
the voyage shall reach home…
And placid, the hearts shall rest...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Songs and Life...

Listening to the songs, do we ponder,
We ponder, and meditate on the truth,
Truth that the song has spoken of…
But how much is written on the road
That runs through the mead and highland,
Journey has those songs,
Journey has those minds that come across the oceans,
Still I think the songs are never written in the actions
And actions in those songs are seldom sung through experience…

Still I try to speak and experiment,
The experiment, I try to do in my life,
I experiment the truth of the songs,
And see how it unfolds,
That is how I live, call me naïve,
Call me a dreamer, I say I wouldn’t mind,
Call me what you may,
But it is the song of olden woods and merriment,
it is the song of the olden truth and the olden man,
that I wish my life to sing…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

City ways...

Voices restrained, whispers often muffled
to hide the desperation in the silent screams…
The cities and those lonely pathways and dark alleys,
The stray dogs of this night’s calling,
the flowing drainage that stinks,
Funnily enough the images conjured
have become unbecoming to our soul,
Yet are our very own creations…

Welcome, welcome, this night,
Welcome to reality the unrealistic yet true,
Welcome here to this abbey of bliss
The softness of truth and the culture’s silent hue…

Embrace the truth, difficult yet that which creaks,
Break through, break through the mystifying veils
and be the one who speaks…
It’s difficult, much more difficult to listen,
Than to be herded, it has so been the case,
As you very well know, no one here lives their lives,
But leaves their life to flow along with others,
Polluting their ways through the city, as stinking sewage…

Now its laid out in front of you my friends,
Be the city’s tomfoolery and stink with each one of that who
Flows away their life in the rat race, or be that one, who stays,
Stays alone, never racing to reach the river and pollute it again,
Be the one, who stays and allows roses to grow in their place…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Tarmac of the Soul...

On this tarmac, it touched down…
Yes, I didn’t expect it either,
Funnily enough it was a foggy day…
With all the faculties asleep or inert,
The vague light bottled up the midnight’s flight…

On this tarmac, this day it has made its journey,
I mean the journey’s end,
For the airplane can’t stay aloof to the runway for long…
Suddenly those engines were heard,
Unaware the meaningless jeeps below
crossed the perceived desolate tar roll…

And now, in the failing light,
Fog and few make up this fight,
Where coldness takes over the evasive night,
And amidst all the thoughts and trepidations of the heart,
Amidst all the impediments of the mind,
The winged angel from God’s own land,
The pondering beauty of the spirited hand,
That silent mistress, for me, who hangs on this pole,
Has touched down upon the tarmac of the soul…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Answer...

If you find beauty in the East,
If you say you trust in darkness the least…
If you see me in the water’s reflection,
If you feel for me an unconditional affection…

Mystery is solved with faith,
Roads take you only so far,
Imagination is what helps find what is in the wait…
Eyes can show you only so far,
It is heart which teaches what is beyond the night…

Voice can only speak so much…
It’s the words which say all else,
which matter, but look, is it everything?
Expectations, wants, yearnings,
What is it that you are so restless about?

What do you seek?
Is it me?
Haven’t you heard me inside you,
Haven’t you tried to listen to those echoes,
That voice your fears, dark yet honest truth,
Which remain hidden yet known?

Have you tried to think of those echoes?
Have you echoed your thoughts in your heart?
Tell me, my dear, ink will only take you so far…
Why do you search for me?
Find me in you,
For I am you, you are me…

I am the possibility,
I am the probability,
I am the fate,
I am the destiny…
I am the hate,
I am the love, yet I am the old fat lies,
That make up your soul, of late…

Amongst the stars,
I fly like a ghost of light…
I am blackness of that hole,
I am the fire amidst the nothingness,
Yet, I am but the thirst of the young brigade…

You have searched for me far and wide,
Yet I see it is wiser,to calm down, sit down,
Breathe, and find me in that breath,
Find me in your life,
I am the slave of truth,
Yet happy to be bound to all that is free…
Find me, yes, find me boy, for all that shall,
And all that will, I am that which has and hasn’t been...
I am the one which you behold,
but I am the one which you can never hold...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Catcher in the Dust...

There is the distance scaled through this mind,
Speed given by this thoughtful find...
The ghost of the past regime,
History of a distant past,
Running and pant of a tired boy and his scream…

Legend of the faces, creases of the age,
And the mind’s own cage...
They are like the stranger passing through
This unknown land, like a whisper
soaked by thought's own hand...

I am the change you want to see,
I will never show you what is there,
that is for you to see, but not me…
I see your soul naked and its fire,
I am the old school, who never tires…

I am the Lancelot of mystery,
I am the Arthur of history…
I am humble as we speak,
As I know I am just as weak...
But inside I am Hercules,
but that's just saying for me…

For this day, and days hence,
I may seem to be a freak,
But I know what I am,
I am the beauty that I wish to see…
Nay boasting, I am the trust that I wish to believe…

You see, faith is what is in me,
And duty is what there awaits…
I am the only chance I have,
And the only person on whom I can bank…
I am the faithful, only sincere to the duties of me
and the slave of this body, but my dream
and my course is free,
‘cos the will of free soul does not sleep…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

We the Sultans...

We play with those guitars, not the guns…
Last night we went home drunk…
We are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

The strings on those guitars move,
Fingers rolling over the chords like a swift little breeze…
We get those shivers, when we try to imitate
The snob and those bullies…
‘Cos we are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

Competition, and search, earnest to imply what echoes
And in our eardrums rings…
When this old guitar is on the road,
And the wheels don’t mind,
Singing the road a lullaby…
And on the road we go,
We move through the highway,
‘Cos we are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

We play with the Grey old beast,
That dark wicked horse of dreams,
Dreams which, failed, shall ring us a sorry lullaby,
But we never mind, as the soul wishes to sing…
We step up to that dream,
Facing with the ammunition and guitars,
Facing with words and laughter and, why yes,
Rolling fingers across those strings,
‘Cos we are the Sultans,
The Lords of how we wish to sing…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A Verse on Nature's Dance...

When all mankind sleeps,nature awakens,
Playing those heavenly dances of wind and rain...

This winter has brought to me with it,
all the joys and happiness,a wishful thought,
and unstoppable ink...

It is in the slumber of man,
in human inactivity,does nature find its activity...

Cold,and inert,a man rests,
and for once the puppet becomes the audience,
and the stage stages the dance of itself...

Rain falls down,whispering
tidings from the warm Adithya
and wind blows off the rain,
earth smelling of wet leaves and grass blades,
bent with the weight of dampened rays...

And slowly,through the darkness,
amidst the clouds,there comes this light,
which stays but for few minutes,
before running away,scouting for further clouds...

But how shall poor sun know,
that clouds,that it seeks,
cover its retreats,and the leaves look up and smile,
while groaning little rodents go back to their mead...

Rain splashes across the ground,and now its night,
all is silent,save for the moon that shines...

But stars aren't favoured by these neighbouring steeds,
who but proclaim with irony
the defeat of fading stars that retreat...

This, and all the allied wind,
woven and spun into a thread or a string...
Now,all that is left is a song that is to be sung,
while the nature plays its tune,
to that friendly game,
where cloud won but still,
everything remains the same...

Nature with its many ecstasies never ceases to sing,
We with our preoccupied slumber,
allow our stupidity to ring...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A Song for You...

There is something we see,
there is something we can be,
but then, sometimes we realise,
what we are is worth it...

There is those moments we think,
If we were that one bit different,
Would it have made all that difference in the world?
But then that smile would be gone,
I may not be the person you may find pleasing,
But I have found that my mind,
It stays, it stays forever asleep,
Dreaming that which my heart says...

That day when you danced in the rain,
I felt all my joy saying thanks to that rain…
That day when you cried, I felt,
I felt my arms, stretching out,
Trying to hug you, trying to wipe those tears on your pallor...

Ever since I have known, this fact,
This feeling, and known this soul,
Which made me feel so happy...
You may pardon, or you may not,
But for me, angel who soars above that sun,
it is you...

I am nobody, nobody who may make you feel happy,
This song is not for showing you what I am,
I write this song to show you what you mean to me,
This maybe a fairy tale, with an ending as foretold,
Or it may be reality, not really untold...

But now, at this moment, I want to say,
All I care to say to you who are dearest
of all that is dear to my soul,
All I want to say is,
Dear, I just love you so...
All I want to say is,
I just love you so...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Wintry Truth and A Song for the Rains...

One two, one two, one two,
And so the key notes sound,
Almost as though they have
Played it, this tune of pain,
All along… There is the key note which
Reminds me of rains, and there is this key note
which talks of the hoof on the wet lands…

You might get up, and see,
Rising sunshine,
Which talks of the happiness that is in the form of those rays,
And the joy of small droplets falling across your sill,
While it is you, sitting by the window,
Curtains raised, welcome the dance of playful nature…

Few drops come down to kiss you,
Some just pass along with a gentle touch,
Wetness of emotions, touching the smiling pallor,
Much has that pallor suffered pain, and this…
And these droplets , they wash away the hurt
They wash away those pains, which are unsaid and unheard…

There is this sweet respite in the notes of Piano,
Which notes the sweet song of the wintry rains…
Fair and sweet, this coldness speaks,
Fair and sweet, this cold nature shows,
It tells us the reason for its coldness
Is for us to find warmth inside,
Warmth of this soul, that which is the greatest gift
That possess the insignificant we…

Winter is oft proclaimed as season of death,
But for an esthete, it proclaims,
It unearths, the beauty of life…
Winter is a sacrifice by God unto we,
To make us remember the beauty of life,
That runs within…

You may feel the Piano lies,
But a key deferred changes joy to sorrow,
And a key differed changes sorrow to joy…
Ye may perceive Winter as death,
But for the lover who romances the beauty of life,
Every season is a great friend,
Guiding us through our short yet sweet lives…

Rains may be tears, but mate, remember the girl
Remember the girl who dances when it showers…
Rain remains no longer formidable pain,
But rather a sweet Elixir of Beauty of life…
Remember the smile after rain splashes
across the face of that beautiful girl…
Remember the huddled little child covered in a quilt of love,
In winter, waiting for your embrace…
Then, my friend, sorrow in the dampened environ
Ceases, and all that it leaves behind is incessant joy,
All that it leaves behind is incessant happiness,
All that it leaves behind is incessant Love,
And all that remains in you is the loving smiles for a lovely life…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Flow...

Here I see a cliff,
A cliff,a doorway…
Red sand,and soapstone,
Breaking against the waves,
barricading the ocean…

You see,the waters are those
exquisite thoughts,Flowing in your mind
and you cease to exist…

No longer,your body embodies your soul,
You are like those rays,that sunshine
Which is from the sun,but no longer a part of it…
You break through the doors,and the viels
of those leaves and the tall trees,
you stream these lands,yes,you
as once broken you are the strong and steady soul…

You break through the shackles set by mundane,
The bamboozle of stupidity,that embodies this head,
Has for long been discarded,
And now remains,the endless eternity,
Where we humans,are nothing but the wafting
flavours of God’s creation,endearing elements,
and the remains of the epiphany of Nature’s creation..
I see these verses,rather lengthening
with the weight of thought…
Capturing are these, images
Picturesque thoughts and the beauty of the journey,
And conjuring the creative effort,
I rest this ink,for journey takes me,
With music and art,into its keep,
And I shall retreat before that Satanic sheep,
Come forth talking of those boastful unnecessary heap…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Bane of this Unjust Boon...

Everyone praises you for your gift,
It is common indeed,
But you know, but yourself, how that boon
Has been the bane of your life…

Sometimes I wish to give up all that
And wish, just to gain a normal life,
Wherein isolation is not
the general manner of the day…

whoever said being the black sheep
was of any merit, needs retrospect…
Sometimes you wonder,
What are you, beyond that which is called your gift…

Sometimes I smile, rather in place of tears,
On my much hurt pallor,
Whether people forget the existence of
Sensitivities on a seemingly cold, yet human soul…

I wish you were here,
One who proclaimed beauty of
so-called blessing unto the few odd we..
Sometimes I wonder what has this brought?

This gift has brought naught save hurt
Hurt of isolation, wherein love and care
Wherein acceptance in the common stream
Is non-existent… Aye, acceptance is non-existent…

These questions when asked with those
few who cared enough to listen
found the answers of indifference…
How else can I describe it, my muse?

Is it my fault, that I am not, what my age speaks?
Is it my fault, that I cared inspite of that hurt inflicted?
Is it my fault, that I still thought, I shall be accepted?
Is it my fault, I hoped?

I wonder, if loving somebody was a sin?
I wonder, if hoping that the attention was more
than a decoy… A decoy was a momentary gain…
Why, my friend? Had you asked in plain terms -

Still I would have answered you, my friend,
Still I would have helped you get through…
You need not have played this way,
In this opportunist and hurtful fashion…

Now, it is me, who is hurt, while you
Yonder celebrate your gains…
You built a stairway to heaven For this hurt
soul who but wished to share few moments…

Those stairs dissolved, in the wisps of decay,
And in the smoke of betrayal and insensitive
Role play… And I have fallen, yet again in these
Sands of earth, where care is like dew,
shortlived and hard to know…

And all, I have seen, and all I have got is,
Just the juices of scorpion’s sting…
All I have won, is the undue betrayal,
Through the bane of this unjust boon…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A Contemplative Verse

It was all said in a moment...
That glare of exchange,
that contemplating thought…
Beauty of those keys went in,
With one moment ever lived more than the last…
I wonder, as this music wafts its flavour,
To the taste buds of my ears,
who upon noticing the divine beckoning,
extend their interest in this versified setting…
Contemplating, am I, this silence,
Wherein, a space has been vacated,
And yes, vacated with a single purpose of being filled…
The piano, yes, it is flowing,
Its music is ceasing not,
Naught, considering my own foolishness,
I see it brought out of the womb of Mother Earth,
This beautiful creation of Nature...
Contemplating in these vacant places, am I,
Three beats, and a note…
Three notes, and a beat…
Three hundred days, have unknowingly been spent
by this unsuspecting beast…
The junipers or those conifers,
The foxes or these snails,
Slow and fast, of these merry woods, have grown
And are now gone, but amongst those trees,
The stone walls of forgotten city, decaying,
Has that moist Lichen, slowly crawling,
Even in the absence of such a beauty
as human intelligence,
The papyrus existed without these papers..
Thoughts, aye, my very own,
Of merriment, sitting on that log of my dreams,
Listening to this piano, brings me that merriment,
Merriment that the fox found
trotting amidst the silent snows…
I lay, mute, I am the silent owl,
In a hollow of a green stump,
Ancient, but giving cottage to rising
mosses of the spirited green…

Tinkle of these high key notes,
And now I drift to those walks,
Amidst the woods, of convenient verses,
Amidst the rivers of free words,
That my common friend could contemplate,
As I and he, that friend of me, travelled,
Not very far from here,
But under the canopy of such an exquisite avenue,
That the very earth seemed draped in the yellow
Leafy dress, woven by those very trees…
Moist soil, underneath our feet,
With the Great Black spider,
seeking shade in its much laboured abode…
Moist, and walking down such a lane,
Which thereof remembers that we had been…
For I have never seen, my dear nature,
hiding the history…
All, my wanderings,
And all my curiosities within this small
universe that keeps me busy in dreams,
Has but shown me that all that we lose with time,
Come out, draped within those rusty dust and gravel stone,
All but gained a form, that of nature’s son…
Timid, those birds sang away, in glory,
While the urchins, sent to church, yonder,
Passed that rainy evening, with their smiles flying by…
Now, these simple notes, of the divinity,
Harmony, as I have versed someplace else, of epiphany,
In my piano music, that I contemplate within my ears…
I remind my dear brother soul,
Of those days, when we were young,
and this soul had passed through
Many a wilder mysteries,
And now reflections bring me back a smile,
A smile on the naïve younger me,
And also a smile boasting promise of future,
Waiting to be unearthed
by nature’s sweet melody…
And I say, my brother wearing my clothe,
For you these fingers move,
And you make these untrue lips of mine smile…
Yes, my brother, these days are mine,
And yours to cherish,
as the future is never untold,
But true, as though always told,
Past is which is most untrue,
Unless there is life,
which ran through the mocking woods,
The pigeons and sparrows,
civilization’s own birds, showing
These limitless minds the mysteries of nature…
I verse not, here, in my mind,
With these thoughts to bring
a meaning to what I write, or
Not even to write what I mean,
Such is this mysticism...
Somewhere contentment flows,
Beyond these words,
Beyond those woods,
And beyond also the longing hoods,
Contentment flows,
Which talks me into this merriment…
Soothing, yet I hear the crickets,
And also those frogs,
Birds chirping, in many voices, but a single soul…
The flow of water is just elation for this soul,
Absolute bliss, this refuge, is hardly an confinement or,
Speaking in such terms, may feel as though,
this mind has wandered from the jailed four walls,
to Paradiso...
Flutes, drums and bamboo sticks,
Air, and wind, and everything that soars,
Travel, travel far beyond the imagining mind,
And this music of ancient human brings
that joy back and we find,
Yes, it is done, it is finished,
I am back, back to the confines of my mind
After that soulful retreat and this romantic find...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Through an Insect's Eye...

What if we were the size of ants?
What if every grain of sand,
were like a boulder,
and every rock,a mountain,
on which,we climb and stand?

What if,we were like
a bee in a rose,
seeking sweet nectar,
we could swarm those lands...

And,what if we were
those small insects,
which would take a long walk
on these human hands?

A larger,more wondrous,
our world might seem...
Lesser,a burden,
our life might be...

I see,Ye God,
I see Ye in those bees...
I see Ye bumbling away,
while on a feather me sleeps...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

November Rains...

Endless it pours…
North and East, seen and come,
Such, far and long, has been its course…
It finds its way, through the busy day,
Into the waves of Mother Ocean,
which has been its source…
Yes, all I can say is I agree,
Flawless, it soars…

The mellow thoughts,
Vacant brackets of mind…
Gloom, foretold, experienced upon ridicule…
Soars, singing those songs, from the high wet Eastern shores…

November winds,
And autumnal leaves,
Reminders of decay, which say
Life once bloomed,
And dirt now grooms…

Mellow, yes, mellow again,
For the fortune was beheld in uncanny veins…

There is a call, from those high mountains,
Reaches my ears,
Intense, those vibrations in the
Darkness of the night…

The pen glistens,
As I verse, my random thoughts…
Droplets trickle, filling the sill,
Slow and patient through a laboured wet grill…

I lie cold, bereft of notions,
I lie observant of the deathly silence…
Is it for me to speak,
Or just watch us mutate?
Well, perhaps be a part of it…

I watch, amused,
How my fingers move,
For the few ears which hear,
And the eyes that observe,
That which is near…

The lonely darkness,
Lays appealing…
The drums, the violins,
The keys of that board,
All blend in harmony with
These November rains…

Humanity slumbers,
Insomniacs don’t, ailed by their woes…
But all that live through
The freezing cold,
All that go back
To their tropical hold,
Are these rains…

Yes, it vibrates…
Bringing the autumnal chords to rest
In that sweet cold winter’s nest…
Reprieve, it does stay stealthy as ever…

Alone, and at peace,
What beseeches, one cannot see…
Neither happy nor sad,
This soul stays aloof,
From all that is earthly and un-free,
And why yes, bad…

For once, this ink fails to stop,
And the heart and mind waver not…
Blank, empty solitude,
Blissful retreat of my fortitude…

New, yes, new and untested,
With this heavy heart,
Blank and foreboding has there been
this untold future’s start…

This music has tried,
To convey to my heart…
What I write is just,
a beginning or a humble start…

These November rains shall again remain,
Etched, complex, divine remains…
Yes, this moment shall be cherished for long,
As it is not always, that one
Becomes soulful and strong…

Yes, it is not always, that one
Finds deep and assuring warmth…

I have penned enough verses,
To talk of this cold moment…
It seems now, that I have said,
Conveyed that message,
Of laughter and joy, and aye,
of those wet pains…
That which was shown to me,
In the warmth of these November rains…

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Oxymorons of Perception...

There are no fairies,
far the fairy tales...
There are no heroes,
far the heroics...
There are no sages,
far the miracles...

There are just men,
and just the mundane...

There is no ordinary person,
there is no extraordinary...
The soul,the spirit,
there is nothing at all...

A bliss flowing through the chasms,
and those fires,and waves of ballads,
unsung for a long time,forgotten...
Miracle,it is there everywhere...
Miracle,it is nowhere...

All pervading,non existing...
You all look at Light,
some smile,some laugh,
yet others frown and close their eyes...
It is in that light...

You feel darkness,
within and without,yonder,
but there is a flame which but flares
in that plight...
Some are blind,others blinded,
it is there,lurking as a shadow...

Darkness shadows the light,
and this flame shadows the shadow...
Yes,it is there,and it isn't...

After all,it is what you see,
and seeing is believing...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Address to Goliath of my Legion...

You say hi today, and the next,
you hear byes,goodbyes...
Today night you sleep,
you imagine yourself having a smile of peace...
And tomorrow Ye wake up...
And find empty farewells on your day's periods...
A voice inside my head speaks,
says all that has been,and shall be,
within your reach is incomplete my lad...
I survived against the tides,
of despondence and sorrow,
but truly,I see all that I felt true to,
follows me down,to the Valley of Doom...
Roses sprung through the thorns they say,
but noone thought,those thorns tore those
very blooming sweet roses...
Ye sing my song,oh twilight rays,
Ye sing my song,the dying thunders of ending rains...
That umbrella of protection,
from dampness and gloom...
Has but been forgotten,
torn amidst those fences erected in the middle of the road,
and I sat behind that wrongful wall,
wondering at my blinded faith,
and at those disillusioned dreadful wraiths...
The swords of those mighty have fallen accord
with the order of the sighted few,
who survived...
But Goliath of my Legion,
know this,and vow to make others know this,
Achilles also had his ankle,
and Ajax his rage,
Ulysses hath his age deceived,
and all fallen to gloom and immortality...
And so,have I bent down to inevitability of fate,
with my unseconded and now broken faith...
Now I believe,all you can create is,your journey,
and you shalt never besiege another soul,to share the realm,
that meant to be your path,and
thou shalt never intrude,
the realms of those who live behind the
Mighty Walls of Troy,
Troy of their heart...
A war won deceived,
is war not won at all...
And hence,thy servant perceivest this truth,
and at this hour,accepts and lays down contended,
contemplating his loss...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Vagabonds and the Highway...

I see him and her walking past...
I can see them walking past...
I can see everyone walking past...
Yes,I was here long before,
I remained here when everyone else learnt to walk
and now they run,run fast,agility evident,
thirst to suck the life out of their time,
everyone runs...
Everyone competent from humble beginnings,
competent in their present positions...
All fast vibrant entities...
Purpose,goal and direction,
all set their wheels in motion...
I seem to be stuck,in this quagmire,
my own impeding mind...
I am not moving,
Have become a bystander,
on that long lonely highway,
who realises that no vehicle stops here forever,
for you...
All move on,
none wait,none bother,in this fast road,
if other vehicle moves or not...
I for now have become that vehicle whose engine
doesn't talk...
Hoped that those who stop,
those who stopped by,
remain and help me get a move on...
But now I see,none shall stop for you,
none was meant to do so...
I if have to make a journey,
have to do it myself...
On a Highway,I am but a Vagabond,
of no home,no friends, no noone...
And vagabonds make a journey of their own,
or perish stagnant as bystanders...
Now I see,those who stopped longest,who came from behind,
those who have been here and making journey further,
all driving at greater speeds,while I wait
hoping some will provide me with reparation and lifeline...
Ah,foolish me,this impertinent stagnancy is taking its toll,
stayed stationary long enough,
I wish now to get a move on..
Highway is for Vagabond to travel,
and this chapter taught,
will serve me well I believe...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Sonnet at Dusk...

Sounds of treason echoing your dread,
mind and thy heart hanging by that thread...
And I see,that person reach out screaming,
altering the voice,and the meaning...

Gauging the waters,have I stayed at beach so long,
depths of those oceans,never felt or written into my song...
Distant echo of a hollow sound,
and cruel reality of the blackened mound...

Greater truth laid down by your way,
but the stubborn fearful mind refuses to sway...
And I gasp for breath with a song in my heart,
which asks for deliverance through this burning art...

God helps those,who listened to what he said,
and went their way,in time, realising it was all in their head...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Alchemy of Mind...

Words,the literary ether,
the life in the forest of humanity...
I still remember those days,
sitting down in the cozy dark corner,
with a book in hand,
shifting slightly,whenever a leaf turned...
Or else,those rain-drenched nights,
where you lay,with a warm blanket,
turning either sides,
at the turn of each page...
A book,a paper,
a friend,whom you carried around...
That friend,whose presence
made the most weary lecture,
pleasurable...
The physical proximity,
the lexical connection,
the informal extension of formal existence...
Under the glares of commuters,
beneath the blaring traffic,
beyond the rising lead,
in that dilapidated rocky bus,
Ye helped me find solace...
Transported to magical realms of Middle Earth,
riding with Harry on the centaur,
or maybe talking to Sapphira,the blue dragon...
You never left me to despair in harsh poison of reality...
My lungs burnt less in that smoke,where
my mind so carelessly soared...
Then when,it was time to come back,
and give the earthly pleasures a thought,
Wordsworth,showed Words' worth...
I know of England,I know of its flowers,
I know of Khashi,and its incessant showers...
I know,not because I have seen them in day,
but because I have flown over them,while it was just here that I always stayed...
And then there came Chaucer and Pope,
bringing with them Renaissance and its hope...
And Coleridge passed silently by,
with Keats leaping about,
singing what he knew on earth,
and then they passed by...
Sinister mind of Hitler,
and cold intellect of Kipling passed,
Shirley and Yeats,barely surpassed...
And when these poets and writers departed,
taking Europe and States,and Asia with them,
I sat conversing with my thoughts undefined,
till there came a stroke of unknown design...
Formed into words,were my mind's dances refined,
Structured have I this poetry with humility,
as an Ode for the Divine...
Singing the glories of the thoughts of those wild,
and mourning the progress we men made so mild,
I take your leave hoping for a miracle,and thus I resign...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Meditation on Yared's Violins...

The cold pressure of the fan,
Yared's violins in my ear...
I look through the pages inside...

The pen in my hand,rests...
It has a blank page to fill...
Searching,earnestly,my mind,
switches to faster speed...

Drums are beating,
mourning the death,
and the tempo lowers...

Yes,Yared agrees,
hero is gone...
Elegiac tunes echo in piano...

Woman,clad in black,
a single tear on her cheek,looks...
A silence,
mute,dark,smooth silence...

A silence whose music,
remains unparalleled,save by the slow retreat
of that long bow over violin chords...

Yes,I am listening,
intent meditation on the stringed God,
and I wonder at the miracle...

You see,silence engulfs the music,
music engulfs the silence...
And I float in that ether,
raised...
Silence and sound,divine synonyms,
brought to my mind...

The slow lament finishes,
Yared rests,and I see,
my page filled...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

One last blessing...

The lonely stretches,ahead,windy and foreboding....
The road,speaks long unfolding story..
I want to leave,
I want to go...
I want to witness the majesty...
August decorations,impeded by honest trepidations...
Preparations for that life,
that journey,had set in motion,
my subliminal processes,
long ago...
I itch to explore,
I yearn to seek...
Impediments of doubt,yet stopping,
live swarms of humane buzzers....
Buzzing caution,
and my mind yielding ever and again to the precaution....
The hat is worn,
the food and clothe packed away,
and the stick that supports me in the journey I yearn to take,
well held tightly in my hand...
All that I wait,
under the auspicious evening,
is for that one last blessing...
The road lies ahead,
the home fallen behind...
All that I care and concern is for the feet stuck beneath...
All that I wish,
all that I wait for is one last blessing...
A blessing for a beginning....
A blessing of the first step...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A moment inside...

Listen,hear those chords...
Believe,trust and might
as well wait...
Ease,at ease,
calm your wavering mind,
listen to your heart,
pleasant light falling,
peace in that breath...
Listen,hear those chords...
Hear,there is nothing,
nothing in you...
Void,black depths of nothingness...
That trance,
that ethereal extension of your being...
Darkness,no,it is not dark,
it is black...
A deep hole,
fire beneath...
Flames,now lower,yet so lower,those red beasts...
That spasm of images,
that spiralling chaos,
black hole in the centre,pulling,
pulling with all its might,
deep within it,trance of the deep well...
mud bricks lining the walls,
dirtied,yet smooth,
the beautiful waterfall,
the dirty mosses beneath the smoothed rock
behind the clothe of water...
That girl,falling,
falling,or rather jumping bride,
with flowers in her braid,
and before touching the dark waters beneath,
inside the well,
she hits a bed of white light,
foggy,misty brilliant sparkling light,
merges into the light...
You are pulled back,
back to the brim of the well,
and there he stands,the sage in black robes,
the man with long silky beard,white as the snow,
his deep reddened eye-bags,showing his anger
at your ignorance,and he throws flaming,
white flaming card,which merges with the light yet again,
inexplicable,
and a square sheath of of light passes,
through time and space...
It comes,and hits a body of white light,
no,it is a human,yet not entirely so...
It is a human sitting on a chair...
But not a human indeed,
a body of light...
The room around him,dark rectangular...
And there are bodies of light around him,
holding white hands of light...
Of all shapes and sizes,
floating in a circle around him...
They watch the sheath of light hit this human...
Illuminated,yet more intense,he glows...
The crown glows even more,
and as I watch,
the crown bursts,
Spraying a fountain of white light...
But this time,those are rays,
rays sourced in the human's crown,
Rays,beaded,red,blue,green and black...
All shining,sparkling,glowing...
They rise in the fountain,and they descend,
fall on the ground,
bounce away in straight lines in all directions...
I am watching,and some come,
some hit me...
I am watching in darkness,
And these rays of sparkling brilliant light,
come and hit me...
I fall down,because of their immense power,
then everything goes mute,
and I rise from the chair,
in the middle of a rectangular dark room,
rain splashing outside,in the midnight...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

A fool's hope and reward...

First they say it with ease,
then they try to please...
I saw not in those lurking shadows,
I missed the light in the darkness of the untrue...
Yet,in these flimsy depths,
yet amidst the silt that pulls me back,down,
in these green waters,
I try to swim back to surface,and to light....
And yes,there rose a devotion for that divinity,
but saw not my slavery.
Yes,had no interest in my royalty,
for I saw,in royalty one seldom reaped joy,
leading a hapless life of unconcerned responsibility,
which royalty teaches you to ignore...
Now rebelling,I have fled...
I escape the nests of night,
crawling those crevices of agony,
seeping poison into my lungs,
I escaped,
tried to get to the truth....
But the truth has led me into this darkness....
This dark tunnel,which my rebellion
has destined my journey to end at...
I know not,if it were for the devotion,
or for the faith...
Long forgotten those water and air of my life,
lay beside me,
half covered in dust,and half forsaken by my soul...
And when this faith wavers or shatters,
still I will move,I shalt move,
for I am sure,hope remains...
A fool's hope,as was said once wisely...
This quest for the untrue,
this quest to sneak out of what I am,
or what I shall be,has brought me back,
but to the surface yet again,
no,not quite yet,
but still amongst the creeping ivy,I see...
Beyond these tunnels of silted water,
There lies,what I have long sought...
It seems wondrous indeed,
that after days of search,and research,
and such desperate yearning for truth,
you shalt,but return to whence you began...
Yes,what you perceive is true my friend,
I am back home...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Face of Experience...

His nonchalance well observed...
Those obscure links,written away in an ancient tongue...
Wrinkled rivulets,meandering the magnanimity....
Pallor grim yet profound...
He sits their,his beard,
caught in the ebb time currents of his age...
He smiles down,long forgotten happiness,
it has been long forgotten,his joy...
But he smiles,remembers his vanity,
trusts his children running across his horizon...
Violin strings in the distance seem to have struck a chord
which has broken his silence...
Yet again those eyes,beady,
standing atop his magnificent pallor,
glistening like those deep clear wells,
delving into dark depths,dungeons,
wherein past has been kept away,
hidden,buried,but still...
But still,those wells,are the passive donors,
those wells,deep yet sources of the fluid essence of our life...
And again those deep wells,lay covering...
Covering the dungeons which lead to the temper..
You see that calm face,with its gorges,with its unmoving sterility...
With its immovable mountains,and unfathomable deeps,
but Lord shall speak,if he must,about the dark depths...
The greatest bearded bard of our humanity...
The face of Experience,pacified and unperturbed
in these disturbed times,still rests...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

College Magazine Article - Edited version of previous article,Poetry & Experience

There is always certain small things which inspire a great deal of thought processes,and one such incident occurred recently in our interactive classes of Literature when one of my friends posed an interesting stand on judging one of my recent poems... With all due respect and regard to my friend's intelligent observation I write this piece,as a reply to his question...
The question that I was posed with was about the authenticity of one of my poems,when I had not experienced the content I had written about,here the theme being "war"..
My friend argued that I had never been in a war,so how can I write about it in a first person perspective...

Before I venture into answering the questions posed by my friend,I shall first discuss what experience and poetry, or rather Art in general mean in my perspective...


What is Art and Poetry?

Art in its highest sense is something which forms a voice for the human soul,unshrouded,unmuffled..
One of its most accomplished diaspora,the Poetry,is the voice of the soul... Sweet as it may sound,the depth and the nature of poetry goes way beneath the mere overt vanity of its structure and symbols and figures and rhythm...
Poetry gives an individual the scope of delving into oneself,exploring those unearthed chapters of human thoughts,which lay hidden beneath the burdens of social and psychological idiosyncrasies... Poetry has been more than those few lines,which we recite in groups when we are 10,read aloud when we are 15, read silently when we are 25, and quote when we are 50...
Poetry in its essence carries the answers for everything in life... Because,the questions created in our life,have answers, more than often, in our hearts,and this art,is a key to unlock those answers...

Now,an interesting question arises,as to what are the elements that go into it?

By elements,I don't envisage the vocabulary and linguistics, as the answer; but by elements I look into much more humane concepts,which go into it,and come out bursting in colours flowing from our heart,to our mind,into our ink and onto our paper as a poetic piece...
Elements unique to man... Elements like opinions,judgements,morals,emotions and most importantly,summing up all,ideas...
Language is construction of Poetry,these elements are conception of Poetry...


What is Experience?

Seeing is believing... When you go through, is when you feel and empathise... And those two 'injustices' done upon you,altering your persona every second of your life are always grossly grouped under the tag of Experience....
Experience,is what brings out expression... An authentic expression...
Expression which can stir the hearts and touch the minds of those thinking few... Experience is what keeps the elements of our identity together,the thought,the word and the action... And it often creates memories,which last and guide us further... Experience has become synonymous with empathy in this world,where the latter has become a depleted and a rather endangered phenomenon,remaining in existence mostly only coupled with experience...
Experience is the meaningful group all the words that are typed,backspaced,ad-libbed,emboldened,italicized,deleted,and constantly rewritten into a Text document on a white paper called your Identity...


The Answer

I opine of the perspective that experience is a tool,which we can utilise,when it is available... But depending solely on it for gaining our understanding and comprehension; for our judgements,for our perceptions, about the sea of knowledge and topics which cover them is plainly impossible and more importantly incomplete and is naive indeed... Experience in itself,is an excellent,and universally,acknowledged teacher,often acclaimed to be the finest in the profession; but waiting for this experience is what I find to be the most imprudent thing to do when it comes to creativity... For often in the wait,you lose the waited...
Experience,can not always be available,and sometimes asking for it serves to negate the very purpose and cause you might be willing to address...
As in the aforementioned case of war,for example,waiting for experience is one of the most foolish things to do,which as I said will negate the purpose...
Experience,when it comes by circumstance and accident,is welcome... But it is not advised to go looking for it,when you deal with the themes like war...
Well,I must allude to one more elemental ingredient of poetry,for answering his question... The element being sensitivity...
If a soldier suffers,but can't or doesn't write about his suffering,and I can empathize with his feelings,and I can voice them for him,then I feel it to be my duty,my responsibility,to voice it... And sensitizing with the soldier may not have brought out the exact emotions of the soldier in my poetry,but,if not achieve such duplication,I would at least try to align my poem and its emotional appeal in congruency with his perception...
I wrote the poem in a first person perspective,not because I was the soldier there,and not even because I was impersonating the soldier who opened his heart unto me,but rather because,I saw a movie,wherein through that movie,I thought I heard a soldier describing his horrors, most explicitly...
One doesn't need to have a first hand experience,to describe others suffering,as long as one has the heart to listen to it,and the empathy to understand his brother's suffering...
This again brings me back to the idea,I intend to emphasise through this piece...
Someone who does, need not write,and likewise someone who writes, need not necessarily have done it...
It is imperative that a reader know this...


Purpose of Literature

In literature of any form,it is always the expression of idea and the purpose it intends to meet with,that matters in the end,more than the form given to it or the character you as an writer adorn...
The very purpose of writing about war is to bring out its horrors,heroics,deaths and destruction,by which,the writer intends to warn and impede the reader from asking for it...
Literature can't rely solely upon experience,for when it does that,it becomes reduced to being merely an instrument for depiction and description; quite departing from its purpose in its highest forms,which is,expression...
Expression goes beyond mere depiction...

Now,movies,songs and so many other forms of literature talk of war and war-related themes... And every person who might have been involved in those forms of story telling might not have been involved in the story itself,if and when it happened,but it is hoped and expected that the viewer,the listener,the reader,or in general,the appreciator,appreciate the theme,the story,the message...
The message should serve the purpose,the purpose of acquainting the audience with the subject...
Acquanting and gaining the sympathy,if not,empathy from the audience...


In a manner of conclusion all I can say is that Poetry,in its didactic essence is for senstizing to issues... And how you do it is immaterial. If it is that Chance provides you with experience,so be it... Or if you find yourself capable enough to sensitize,find your agreeability,thus... As in the end,thoughts remain,voices are what make history,and let not your voices be constrained by an improbable wait for an accidental benefactor called experience...
Give your thoughts,the voice they deserve...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Poetry and Experience...

When you see,is when you believe... When you go through, is when you feel... And those two 'injustices' done upon you,altering your persona every now and then are always grossly grouped under the tag of Experience....Experience,as suggested by my friend,is what brings out expression... An authentic expression...Expression which can stir the hearts and touch the minds of those thinking few... Experience is what keeps it together,the thought,word and action... And often creates a memory,which lasts and guides us further... Art in its highest sense is something which forms a voice for the human soul,unshrouded,unmuffled..Art,and one of its most accomplished diaspora,the Poetry,is the voice of the soul... Sweet as it may sound,the depth and the nature of poetry goes way beneath the mere overt vanity of its structure and symbols and figures and rhythm...Poetry gives an individual the scope of delving into oneself,exploring those unearthed chapters of human thoughts,which lay hidden beneath the burdens of social and psychological idiosyncrasies... Poetry has been more than those few lines,which we recite in groups when we are 10,read aloud when we are 15, read silently when we are 25, and quote when we are 50...Poetry in its essence carries the answers for everything in life... Because,the questions created in our life,have answers, more than often, in our hearts,and this art,is a key to unlock those answers...Now,an interesting question arises,as to what are the elements that go into it?By elements,I don't envisage the vocabulary and linguistics, as the answer; but by elements I look into much more humane concepts,which go into it,and come out bursting in colours flowing from our heart,to our mind,into our ink and onto our paper with it...Elements unique to man... Elements like opinions,judgements,morals,emotions and most importantly,summing up all,ideas...These elements,language is construction,these elements are conception...Now,my friend questioned me quite shrewdly indeed, about the authenticity of a poem,when you haven't experienced its theme,here the theme being "war"..I opine of the perspective that experience is a tool,which we can utilise,when it is available... But depending solely on it for gaining our understanding and comprehension; for our judgements,for our perceptions, about the sea of knowledge and topics which cover them is plainly impossible and more importantly incomplete and is naive indeed... Experience in itself,is an excellent,and universally,acknowledged teacher,often acclaimed to be the finest in the profession; but waiting for this experience is what I find to be the most imprudent thing to do when it comes to creativity... For often in the wait,you lose the waited...Experience,can not always be available,and sometimes asking for it serves to negate the very purpose and cause you might be willing to address...As in the aforementioned case of war,for example,waiting for experience is one of the most foolish things to do,which as I said will negate the purpose...Experience,when it comes by circumstance and accident,is welcome... But it is not advised to go looking for it,when you deal with the themes like war... The very purpose of writing about war is to bring out its horrors,heroics,deaths and destruction,by which,the writer intends to warn and impede the reader from asking for it...Literature can't rely solely upon experience,for when it does that,it becomes reduced to being merely an instrument for depiction and description; quite departing from its purpose in its highest forms,which is,expression...Expression goes beyond mere depiction...Someone who does, need not write,and likewise someone who writes, need not always do... My friend argued that I had never been in a war,so how can I write about it in a first person perspective.. Well,I must allude to one more elemental ingredient of poetry,for answering his question,sensitivity...If a soldier suffers,but can't or doesn't write about his suffering,and I can empathize with his feelings,and I can voice them for him,then I feel it to be my duty,my responsibility,to voice it... And sensitizing with the soldier may not have brought out the exact emotions of the soldier in my poetry,but,if not achieve such duplication,I would at least try to align my poem and its emotional appeal in congruency with his perception...Now,movies,songs and so many other forms of literature talk of war and war-related themes... And every person who might have been involved in those forms of story telling might not have been involved in the story itself,if and when it happened,but it is hoped and expected that the viewer,the listener,the reader,or in general,the appreciator,appreciate the theme,the story,the message... The message should serve the purpose,the purpose of acquainting the audience with the subject... Acquainting and gaining the sympathy,if not,empathy from the audience...In literature,its is always the expression of idea and the purpose it intends to meet with,that matters in the end,more than the form given to it or the character you as an writer adorn...I wrote the poem in a first person perspective,not because I was the soldier there,and not even because I was impersonating the soldier who opened his heart unto me,but rather because,I saw a movie,wherein through that movie,I thought I heard a soldier describing their horrors, most explicitly...But again,movie is another tool,another attempt to reach out to the people,the audience... One doesn't need to have a first hand experience,to describe others suffering,as long as one has the heart to listen to it,and the empathy to understand his brother's suffering...This again brings me back to the idea,I intend to emphasize through this piece...Poetry,in its didactic essence is for sensitizing to issues... And how you do it is immaterial. If it is that Chance provides you with experience,so be it... Or if you find yourself capable enough to sensitize,find your agreeability,thus... As in the end,thoughts remain,voices are what make history,and let not your voices be constrained by an improbable wait for an accidental benefactor called experience.. Give your thoughts,the voice they deserve...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Suicidal Cult...

Its too similar,yes those stories...

Unfurled those flags of freedom,

talked into persuasion of righteousness,

only what it means,never known...



See,he bought his truth,

they bought his faith...

Lord became our teacher,

through a secret pact,

a Council,of selfish mortals...



Nicaea,its truth buried...

Washington,its truth buried...

Rome,its truth buried...

Jerusalem,its truth buried...



Its the Templars,or its the else,

its the Masons,or the else...

Its in faith,

the wheels of humanity...



Its Koran,or its the Bible...

The wheels,where none kills,

yet fights until they fail...



Martyrs unto the cause of God,

who knew,well,what truth was...

In truth,its all the same...



The mighty few,guide the masses through these lanes...

Killing,butchered,as they say for the higher cause,

but blood's all that's left,

in this Holocaust...



Now the God they say,

lives elsewhere,

its in the minds of those democratic and fair...

Those leading us,with their weapons in the fortress...

Those who fight,and kill humans,

with the strange stain...



A stain,where they kill,

and colour the victim's faces...

And with grief,etched on their masks,

mourn those victims they slayed...



Ah! The world,the wide world,

the ignorant wide world,

held at ransom,

by those few insane,

who think of their billion bills,

and their smelling fame...



Ah! The world,the simmering world,

the simmering losing world,

fooled into suicide,

by the suicidal cult...

Who but have built,

a clock that's ticking off,our time to stay

magnificently lame...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Elixir of Hope...

Its a weary presence,

my love,its an elastic existence,

that you lead...



Father,my dear father!

I know,it was painful,

when you sent your children to lead...



Mother,my dear mother!

I know,you have been,patient indeed,

with all that we call our deed...



Father,my honest old man,

Father,my dearest noble man,

I have seen your dreams,

shattered in pieces...



Yet,this day,

when we celebrate,our victory,

I remember,you grieved,

to see us,feast on madness,

that engulfed and destroyed your dreams...



Father,I remember,your daughter,

she said,you grieve...

She said,in all hope you showered upon us,

you ended losing your peace...



Father,your dream is but a distorted

untrue work here...

Here it breaks...

Complacency seeping in,on those,

vested with carrying your noble baton...



The fires,all those fires,of highest cause,

are now ashes,burning coals,

not a single flame rising...



All the fire that rises,

is of the hatred,that has besieged your dreams...



Father,I grieve not,for you died so soon...

Father,I celebrate your deliverance from this

insanity and grief...



We,who were gifted with noblest

of all seeds,

but gave way for leeches,

and the weeds...



The tree has but grown healthy,

and it is withered...

Shaking in its roots,

withering in its leaves,

hollow in its stems and branches...

And what,ah! What shall I say of the fruit??

The fruit is rotten or eaten by worming fleet...

Parasitic greed,plaguing this plant,

whose seeds you sowed,

with your honest palms and watered into a dream...



Ah! Father,

we seek you again,

a cleansing necessity we need...



An elixir of hope,

if you may,

please pass down from heavens

that we just can't reach...



For withered we may have been indeed,

but still life flows through the roots of our passive existence...

We know,we are hollow,

but still not dead,and

till this free breath remains,

remains a hope that we shall revive,

as the children of your dreams...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Omnipresence...

Are you there in the murky woods?
Are you there in the windy mountains?
Are you there in the flowing rivers?
Or are you in the chirping birds?

Some find you in solitude,
some find you in the middle of our brothers...

Some find you in happiness,
some find you in despondence,
some find you in chance,
some seek you in their destiny...

You seem to fulfill someone's life,
yet for some you are the life...

Sometimes you melt the very depths of one's heart,
yet in few moments,you harden the molten pains of a soul...

You bring tears to few eyes,
you wipe tears of others...

What are you?
where are you from?

We see you not,yet not stop feeling your presence...
Divine existence,worship worthy,
subtle beauty,inexpressible...

The music of silence,
the beauty inside a beast...

The life in the winds over shallow ripples of water...
The sweet joy flowing over the mist and fog...

The dew on one's soul,
always asking us to reach out,
always leading us into green,
always smiling at your children,
always making your children smile...

What are you?
Where are you from?

The subtle gift of humanity...
The beautiful mother of all souls...

One which has the wrath to start wars,
and the power to end them...

The manifestation of God,
if not God,by itself...

The subtle beauty called love...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Whispers of Silence...

When you fought a weary battle,
when you cried with your arms wide open..
When you tried to fool yourself of the untruth,
and calm your heart down...

When you strived to make people happy,
and you strived to make your self known...
When it is all talked out,and ended in a whisper..
When no matter what you say,
what you do,things don't change for better...

You sigh at that end of the day,
where your weary work has not borne any fruit,
and when you after burning your neck under hot scorchy sun,
come back and lie down and perspire...

At that end of the day,
when emotions have come and gone...
All the tears flown and dried,
and all the passion,wasted away...

You find yourself,numb,
oblivious to something called pain...
You shut yourself out,to all that hurts..

And even the faces of those people you loved,
doesn't bring a smile unto your face...
You feel there is pain to be felt,
but you don't feel any pain...

And you do what man has done for ages,
you move on,and just pale shadows remain...
At the end,with regret,perishes your speech,
and all you do,is whisper silences...

Because that is what is left behind,
when all else has left...
Even in the absence of your shadow,
you feel Pablo's infinite silence silences...

Even in the middle of nowhere,
you hear the whispers of infinite silence,silences...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

When all hope fades...

When deranged on a lonely winter's night
when those winds blow backward,
your face,swept off its guard,
by those pains unsaid,
and those points that had clung...
When your soul sings,
ideas that pulverize your being...

Oh! my dear friend!,
then,when all seems black and cold,
that is when,you ought to rise,
and sit beside a hot hearth made of coal...

Your heart shall be that hearth,
which shalt give you your warmth...

Then,in the absence of any hope,
your friend,that unforgiving light,
your smile,my friend,your smile shall give
you,your life,back to your soul...

You may be deranged in your senses,
your limbs and your heart,maybe
numbed by chilly waves that sting...
But,tell me what good is in thinking
you lack that,which is free...

'cause,when every price has been paid,
you will see my friend,
that its time that you let go,
of the chains and shackles that you're in...

It will be then,that,in your life,
which is a dream,you'll see,
how strange it is,to be alive at all...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Bend down from heaven...

Sweet Lady in the heaven,
if a place as such exists...
Thee see o'erhead,our blue planet,
gay beauty,a sight divine,
fatal sorrow in the hours of dismay...

Have you seen our tiny home,
have you my Lady,witnessed the pathos that remains..?
Atrociously morose,aye,this earthling sounds,
but what shall Ye know,
hiding behind that glowing shadow?

Have you,my divine Goddess,
ever witnessed,
the gap between good and evil,so digressed?
Have the dew and honey,
kept you so busy,
that you didn't have a second,
to see something red and tasting bitter?

Has your nice abode,
remained so compelling,
that the fatal reality down here,
evaded your beautiful feelings?

Its been too long,
I ask this of you,
bow your head once and look down on what's true...
You may have to bend down a bit,
but my Goddess,trust me on this,
you would want to know...

You would want to know,
what has become of your 'noble' sons,
who were thinking once,
but are now incensed...

They shall regret,I am sure,
for the blood and oil that
they have wrongfully spilled..

Mountains made porous
with their tunnels too deep,
forests green and oceans blue,
blackened by their fire and filth...

Ye may know,my Lady!,
Ye may have a trick up your sleeve,
I am sure ye may teach your sons,
a chapter in sensibility...

I rest my pen,
another remorseless son,
begging at your feet...
Teach me and my brothers,
the value of our wealth,
teach my family,
red,black,brown,yellow,white
and every other colour under the sun,
that they might like...

Teach those brothers of mine,
who call you,with faith,
but maybe differently in their ways...

Teach us all,
that chapter of the sinful filth of unthinking greed...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Few Observations...

Expressions are best formed in the most profoundly penetrating silences. Its a remarkable irony that the communication of one's thoughts,ideas and dreams come in most marvellously in solitude.
It greatly interests me,the judgements one comes across,even about himself as well as others. The way,a seemingly close-to-heart friends may even turn hostile the moment,the other person walks away.
Paradoxical neture,hypocrisy in thoughts and incongruency in actions. It is an amazingly incredible amalgam of contradictions that we come across in the midst of our wrongly accredited,or rather self-styled order of "civilization".
All humanly reactions and behavioural activities are perceived unnatural to such an extent,that people may even be blamed to suffer issues,but what one fails to notice is that,once placed in such situation,which may drive extremities in reactions,every nine and half individuals out of ten may react more or less,in a similar fashion,if not worse.
The very concept of empathising is lost in oblivion due to stark and non-uniform judgementalism that prevails over and more than often,over-rules human conscience.
Tolerance for a person's flaws is over-ruled by magnified dosage of negative sense of ego.
All things said and done,and existent;but still such an exemplary sense of self-worth prevails amongst the ignominiously deviant people,which though to an extent admirable,but beyond a certain limit,become an undesirable persistant drawback.
It is but alarming as well as intriguing that we humans are such a bundle of contradictions.
All that I could infer is that,we really have a long way to go before our superficiality is shed and we become a tolerant,mature and meaningful "civilization".

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

What say??!!

Is it so true,
the cry of that nightingale?

Is it so majestic,
the power of the whirling cloud?

Is it so intense,
the magic of those west winds?

Everything,that captured the imagination,
of the most imaginative of our kind...
All those flowing whispers,
all those things said and proclaimed beautiful...

Those smiles of the fair lady,
those slender curves of the country maiden...

Its all in the beauty,
it did catch our eyes,minds and pens...

What of those endless tears?
What of those flowing sand dunes,
thorny barren lands,
what of those cracks,what of those
stones,razor sharp??

What of the red coloured fields?
what of the imprisoned slaves?
What say,to remember your flaws?
What say,look at your ugly side?

What say,you stop pretending,
what say,you stop ignoring,
what say,you stop bragging?

What say,you own up?
What say,we shed a tear?

All things beautiful,said and done,
what say,lets wrap a clothe around our,
red blood fun???

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

White pale fall...

Elsewhere it said,justice is free...
Elsewhere it said,
truth is justice...
But down there,
it changed its speech...
There,down that road,
it changed it speed...
It ran faster,
blur to a naked eye,that cycle...
Elsewhere,it slowed down,that screeching wheel...

That little angel,wants to be free...
That little mermaid,stranded,
in its own sea...

Freedom,yet holds a meaning to that heart,
justice,still is believed to be free...

She,that young soul,
comes and says,
'justice is free,and not for one,but for all'...

But,she that poor soul,
has lost her mother at the age of three...

I witness,this parody that God plays on us,
and wonder,
whether to believe in her spirit,
or just aimlessly flee...

Because,I feel,there,at the end of the day,
I see,
all of us are but,like that little mermaid,
stranded in its own sea...

We all fight,
to break those shackles,
wrench those chains,
but I don't see,
winners,who changed this scene...

They have come and gone,
often remembered,
mostly forgotten...

But the world has remained,
still the same...

But I guess,
I will live on,this way...
There won't be white pale fall on my soul...
And somehow,though I don't know if the world is gonna change,
I know that,my heart won't surrender...

It will keep on struggling like a fish in that net,
till my last breath,
but it wouldn't surrender...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Thorns of Destiny...

And so all was said and done...
Things stood quite still for a moment...
The lady who spoke for so long,paused,
catching her breath,gulping down a few drops of water...
Now it waited,the long wait,
the wait of response....
It waited desperately,
the second's thorn of revolving destiny,
it waited yearning for man to perform a miracle,
in the unforgiving stillness of that moment...

All was silence,
with those heads bowed down,
with weight some,
some with pain some more,
some with deliberation,
and some for the sake of it...

Silence,silence that pierced through the hearts of those hundreds standing,
silence that thundered hard,
harder than the hardest thunder...
Silence,that was instilled by her voice...

Everyone,bowed their head,
out of shame,
pain,grief and lamentation...
Some lifted with a quiet decisiveness,which instilled hope...

One or two let out a small syllable of hope...

With this cue,the thorn of destiny,moved on...
The thorn,the quill,the arm of time,
it went ahead,and proclaimed with assurance,
telling to those masses,that change has come...

Lady smiled,
but oh! Alas!
The circling karma of man,
the cycle of human complacency...

The shamefaced bowing heads lifted with the next second,
they pressed down the heads,far lifted...
Scattered voices of hope were extinguished in another second...
And in the next the common man's hope...

Second moved on,
sighing the inevitable hopelessness...
The crowd moved on,
impervious to the wet blood...
The shamefaced rose again...

Another massacre occurred,
and the wise Lady came up,
to voice across their shame...

And in an instant,all was still...
And the game again,began...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Their Story...

Caressing her daughter and hugging her,
her mother assured that everything was fine...

The sack on her back had gotten lighter,
the weight in her arms lighter,
and pain in her heart not so lucky...

But she smiled,as they had walked a long way.
It had been days since her husband died,
it had been days since she conspired...

They had fled,these desperate lot...
They had come into the forest,green and hot...
They had walked miles,
they had slept not...

For days only rest was an hour under a tree...
Now they were near,
near that fence...
Where freedom lay,was said in a sense...

Noone knew what freedom was like,
for they hadn't met it since a long age...
She wondered what lay beyond that wire,
where every grass was green,
and every stone sapphire...

They slept that day under the bough...
The girl rested on the lap of her mother...

Next morning they set out to see the trench,
that was dug to divide freedom from their stench...
They climbed into the ditch,which meant to divide,
and cut through the fence which was sharp and wide...

They set their tools as they entered freedom,
and rejoiced out there,beyond the stench of ditch...

They sang their triumph in reaching their goal,
but a girl cried aloud amidst their celebration...

And motor van came ahead,to face them on the road...
And down came the guns and knives they had left home...

After fifteen seconds of clamour and clicks,
was left this girl and a few more kids...

The guns and knives took them in,
and left their mothers and fathers,
fallen in the bin...

They took them they said to a land unknown,
and traded their flesh for gold and stone....

This is the story,
of the people who sought him,
who promised to be there,
beyond the fence...

Now I guess,that is what is life...
They did find him,
when they passed, away from sin...
They found him in a pool of crimson ink...
They found him,
the one who called himself in their stories 'freedom'...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Music of God...

Is it for the day to show us what light is?
Is it for the night to describe the veil that is dark?
Is it for the rain to touch us,
and smell earthly sweet?

Is it for the mountains to show us,
the heights that she reach?
Is it for for oceans to make us,
dive into such peace?

Is it there in the heat,of a dusty summer's day?
Is it in the freezing wind,or the cloudless sky?
Is it in the shadowy bow,
or an open dell?

Is it in the glimmering pond,
or in a beast's den?
Is it there in the breeze,
or is it in the skies?

Is it coming along,
like a rainbow which sighs?

Even as I speak and ask,
even as I wonder and marvel this treat...
I see it inside of me...

I witness the miracle of me,
I feel the wonder of a miracle called we...

I listen to its music,
in the harmony divine,omnipresent...

And I ask if its true,
is it really around?

An angel from heaven,
a maiden living in a sea...
A blessing to human,
and to all that's earthly...

Music of God,
wondrously green...
And beauty which ought
be called serene...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Stop flirting with my shadow...

Stop flirting with my shadow...
Yes! you heard me right,
I said stop flirting with my shadow...

You got windows to break,
You say,you kill for god's sake...
You slither like a night snake...
Yet...
Yet you won't stop flirting with my shadow...

You may have got greener meadows,
we may have greater widows...
You may laugh at my misery,
you smirk at my pain...
Yes,don't pretend!

Don't call me your brother,
and my children your nephews and nieces,
when you but did kill their mother...

Yes,you have taller buildings,
I know that,I too can see...
You may have taller buildings,
We may have longer queues...

Yes,this is all means is alright,
but stop flirting with my shadow...

You may want my diamonds,
to gift your pretty wife...
You take that diamond,
which shall in time be black...

You take it away, from my hands,
and I pay the price with my life...
So,for now at least,
stop flirting with my shadow...

You may laugh at my lot...
You may end some of us...
But know one thing child,
you have come from us...

I forgive your sins,
I forget your claims...
I close my eyes,
to the pain that remains...

Now my children are crying,
bullied by your lot...
I need to help them,
so leave me be...

I say this again,
though I am dead and gone....
Stop flirting with my shadow...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Hero's Song...

What of the heroes,I ask...
Those who fought,those who died...
We remember them...
Songs sung at every Church,
stories told at every inn...
Those heroes of whose lives,the stories,
those pains of lost friends,
those memories which have haunted their sleeps...
People know how they fought,
what they did,
but do they know what they got... in return?

These soldiers if asked of valour,say,
'losing friends and peaceful nights
for the greed and malice of leading minds,
we don't want that name and price,
for which we lose our brothers' lives...
We were better-off farming and going out in the nights,
singing at home,
playing with our children,
watching the stars and the pale moonlight...
But what now have we left after that strife?...
There is no peace,
long bereft,since the day I watched my friend
when he left...
Now only shadow lingers in the sleepless nights,
where I always bereave for those who died...
He watched out for me,
he wished me luck,
and so I cry every night,
why just him and not me beside,
why just him and not me beside...
What is the glory meant in our lives?
We want no glory,or no praise,
we just wish,it was like the old days,
where we all were happy and slept in the night...
Now what have left I without my friends,
nightmares and pains that never get erased,
no peace exists for these 'heroes',as on that day
it left with our friends' lives...
On that day,we lost our smiles...'

This mu friend,is what a soldier sang,
a hero for us,but a restless mind,
this my friend is a hero's life,
sacrifice and pain that we don't understand...
This my friend is the lament of the hero of the common man...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Last Song...

Yes,it was to be so...
Hail Mary,mother of Grace...
Yes,it was meant to be thus...
Hail Mary,full of Grace...

He wept,aye,he wept dry tears...
Sunken face,his woeful boon,
ghastly past,his violent cocoon...

The lad yonder,were friends with the doctor,
he saved his life for three more seconds...
Hail Mary,full of Grace...
He came this morning
straight from his marriage,
now he lies,dirtied in thin noon...
He laid to rest,
with his friend,
both dead,on that unknown lagoon...

This redneck,right here,
he sleeps...
He was put to sleep,
because he gave his chocolate...
He gave his chocolate
to daughter of the enemy...
Aye,he had,but the chance,to go beneath,
his sandbag,but...
But,he stayed...

He stayed for one more second,
to save that yellow human,
whose father he had come to fight...
Now he rests,now,aye he rests,
shot by the hand,
that should have thanked him
for his humane act...
Hail Mary,full of Grace...

Ah! here lies the robust soldier,
courage spoken unto his bassoon...
He fought this battle,
fierce,like the shadow of the nocturnal moon...
His fears,unknown,
his pain,unseen,
his love,never felt to be existent...
Yet,he who died of the valour,
aye,folly indeed...
He died of that valour,
which saved many,
but ended with him,
lying to wait for the worms...
Hail Mary,full of Grace...

Now,it is so,
that people had blamed,
he had no friends...
People despised him,
for he survived...
People avoided his ghostly presence,
for he made it...

Now he is destroyed,
things have moved on,
his story,unsung,
his brothers' departure unnoticed...

Now,he is at peace,
peace-less life,less than human...
Of course it is so,
it do is less than human,
aye,it is this soldier's life...
Aye,it is these soldiers' life...

Unsung,unknown,unnoticed,
but always there,
present,all around our safe nights,
peaceful,
I cannot say,
but sure,
we live and they die...
Hail Mary,full of Grace...

Peace,forsaken,apathy of God,
dirt- what remains of man,in man and for man...
But the day,
those soldiers laid down their lives,
the day,they,I heard,
they sang their last song,
and I heard them say,with the gratitude
for the end of their plight,
I heard them pray,
'Hail Mary,full of Grace'
and so they moved with peace,
into the Kingdom of Light...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Apathy for Dirt...

It is true then,
Yes,my friend!,
it seems that you were right...
It is true that colour matters...
You see my friend,it was false...
I know he said he is my brother,
I heard it too...

But there are these corpses,
yes,carcasses to his eyes,
of an infestation which had to be weeded out,
there are these corpses,
which slow me down,
on this road...
These corpses of my brothers
tell me a different story...
He,who is lying down near that broken wheel,
that dead voice,
tells me a different story...

A story he says I must not ignore...
He tells me his colour mattered...
He says,my friend,that for your boss his dirt
is not worth a single vote...

He says my friend,
that it is the apathy for dirt,
that leaves him dead...
He asks me if the blood,
that had been his,
wouldn't have been allowed to be spilled,
had his colour been different?

Now this little girl lies,
her arms stretched wide...
It seems,your Lady from Red Cross,
benevolent sister,
heard her last cries...
The Lady says,the girl begged
her to save her life...
The Lady says,girl thought
she is being punished
because she had chosen
a wrong lot to be born amongst...

Now tell me my friend,
what choice had that girl,
in choosing her birth?...
What insanity drives this land,my friend?
Why is it us being hated?

Tell me not,the reason,
that this is our fate,
to be doomed to suffer hate...
Tell me not,with that
apathy for dirt,that we are a burden...

Tell me,my friend,there will
come a date,
when truth meets reason,
and this insanity shall fade...

For what does this matter,
what name we bear?
Is it of any consequence,
whom we have faith in?
Is it to any gain,
that this apathy for dirt should exist?
Is it really colour,that which decides our fate?

For,I wonder,did you care to look,my friend?
Did you care to look beyond,
such reasons,
which found such hate?

Did you,my friend,
who shares the colour of my blood,
look for that day,
when you brothers shall forgo
this draconian trait?

Now tell me,my friend,
when will their hunger sate?...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Journey...

I walk down that lane,
I look back...
There is wind which blows,
dust that sprawls across the whole narrow lane...
The trees ghostly white,
the buildings speak of a ghastly past...
I walk down that lane,
my scarf is torn,
my shoes are worn out...
I see that skies fill again with the clouds,
which cry down their tears,
I yearn to look back,
see the way I came from..
Probably walk a few steps back...
But no,
alas! it won't be so,
ah woe betide,
things have changed...
A change I saw not,
a whisper I heard not,
a pain I felt not...

Now after that anguish,
after that pain,
all that is left is these silent ways,
lonely,
dusty with the dirt rising from those unburied coffins...

Now all that is left is a torn scarf,
a battered bonnet and a tearless mask...
The blood is dried, red and black as the rust from that shell,
the lidless eyes ever awake,
the tired arms carrying the baggage,
the bruised legs walking on,
the ache numbed by the morphine and pain...

There lies darkness ahead,
there was darkness behind...
Or is it just me,who is blind?

Now I wonder,through these chasms restrained,
now I wonder as I walk on that lane,
I wonder with doubt,
whether man was just meant to keep walking,
and forget,all else which was beyond his stride...

This moment,I still walk on,
on the land that is dead,
and amidst the trees that have been slain...

This moment,I wonder in this dying mind that was once sane,
whether all that was worth
was just the journey I made...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

On hope...

Its a part of life that one tends to ignore the difficult concept of acceptance of inevitability...
The frail human soul tries its best to ignore due to sad unacceptability,the inevitable truths.It yearns to believe in that prospect,that utopian euphoria that only hope can dare to explain...
Sometimes,not so rarely,have I witnessed situations,circumstances where the weak human is faced with that deep feeling inside,which keeps nagging at the back of our head telling us the impossibility of what we hope,but still we,the dreamers keep ignoring that warning till it hits us across our face. And when it hits us,we say nothing,there is just a single tear across our pallor,which but says one thing,"see? I told you."
Yes,that tear is the language of the truest and most sensible being that resides in the deepest realms of our heart,that tear is the hand of that being,which writes on the walls of our hearts,the warning,the message,the instruction,the inevitable truth,which we choose to ignore till the last.
It may not be logical,as someone rightly suggests,to ignore the writing on the wall,but yes, still we do it...
People say its our weakness,which makes us do it,people say it is the reason for our doom,the reason for all that went wrong in case of humanity.
But I just feel happy,feel innately calm,peaceful,when I see that whatever happened,had a just reason.
If it were not for our weakness,I perceive,where would we have found our strengths,where would we have learnt about our mistakes,where would that lesson have come in our textbooks. If it were not for our weaknesses,where would education exist;for what is education,but an analysis of our mistakes...
It is best visible in our study of our fathers,which we call as History... I see the ultimate aim of history in its relevance to us,to you,to me,to your brothers,to your sisters,to every human... History is but a study of past glories,and the mistakes and lessons that lay embedded in that past glories of our fathers...
What knowledge would one have of the pain of war,the worth of faith,the worth of sacrifice,the beauty inherent in love,what knowledge of joy,what knowledge of happiness would one possess,if he had never known the past...
How could one understand the romantic beauty of happiness,joy,calm serenity,had he not known pain...
Somewhere we try to avoid the pain,somewhere we like to run away from it...I see no harm in doing so,after all,it hurts...
But it is also true that ultimately you have to face it,and it is also self-implied that it is for your own good...
The hope that keeps us alive,the hope that keeps us moving on in our sycophantic life,the hope that guides us to do mistakes,the hope that guides us to accept them,and it is again hope that makes us learn from those mistakes and keep moving,I must say,as long as we have faith in that hope,it is again the hope itself that will give us strength to endure and experience,whatever life has to offer to us,beautiful or else,beautiful... Yes,the other aspect is also beautiful,for I perceive that pain has a beauty so inherent in its worth,that even everything happy may not possess,and a true student of humanity must see beauty so vibrantly emanating from even pain,as he/she sees in joy and happiness,and only then,can one learn the true worth of life...
It is impossible indeed to imagine life without hope,for what meaning would life hold in the absence of hope,and the faith that hope generates to keep us rolling,while the wheels on the buzz go round and round...:)

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

But this day I know...

It maybe that one day,life may end,
it maybe that I will never again learn to smile...
But this day I know...
I might have lost,I have truly lost,
while I glowed with the satisfaction of winning...

But this day I know...
I have been mean,yes,I said you can not...
I have been,yes,I said you will not...
I have doubted,I have been skeptic,
but now I know...

But this day I know...
I have shut out my heart to everything that was good,
I remained blind to all that meant...
But this day I know...

It maybe that I lost some things forever,
it maybe that I will regain some things again...
But this day I know...

I boasted my ignorance,
I gloated my arrogance...
But this day I know...

I have learnt to smile my friend...
I have learnt to smile...
That day I smirked,that day I rolled my eyes...
But this day I know...

Once I ignored,once I over-looked...
Once I judged...
But this day I know...

I sit here, in this lonely chair, my heart is troubled,
I doubt if I must, but I smile...
I am scared, trust me I am...
But for a reason I don't know,I go ahead and smile...
If these tears speak to me of that loss, that smile tells me the gain...
I know I fell,I know now I needed to...
I have learned what I ought to have seen long ago...
But this day I know...

I know now,you can smile...
You have won my friend...
You have won that old game...
This day content,I know where I must lie down low...
I rest in the lap of time...
But this day I know...
That all I had to do was choose between yesterday and tomorrow...

This day I do know,
I am content and peace sleeps beside me in this solitude,
unlike hours in darkness that I spent in past,
so lonely with pain in that blanket of snow...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju