Deos Et Ipsi Observabant Eum

Deos Et Ipsi Observabant Eum

(The Gods Were Watching It)

While with tragic tears you were stacked,

And the earth, pitch black and dark,

Conquered your strength, dreams destitute.

Made you a whore.

Deos et ipsi observabant eum.

When to the dark gray beasts' fancies,

Struck you a rod in and out,

For that certain quiver in their loins.

You were helpless, and

Deos et ipsi observabant eum.

While by incense traders gluttoned,

In gold and silver the blossom traded,

Mere to be shredded into bits,

Neither of a wreath, nor of some devotion...

Deos et ipsi observabant eum.

And when the lassies, who to feed,

Brought along a sack of gold for a measure of wheat,

Among the fattened bulls and bears,

And when the butterfly broke her wings,

Deos et ipsi observabant eum.

With the gusty wind, the heaven trembled,

Some souls lamenting her saddened fate suicide,

No matter if some ewe cry for help aloud,

When beastly brutes six devour her,

Deos et ipsi observabant eum.

Deos et ipsi observabant eum,

The Gods were watching it they say,

No matter how, where, and what you are,

The Gods will always watch.

The Gods can't do anything else.

                                          G.K

Wail Of Woods And The Waters

Wail Of Woods And The Waters

Don't you hear,
The Wailing echos,
Of the woods and the waters,
From heavens above, hell below,
And the frozen earth,
That 's in between?

Sandwiched by greed and gold,
Sharpening their vicious fangs every passing day.
Can't you hear,
The plight of the dirty moon,
Bloody with innocent sacrifices?

But inside their icy crags,
A demon huge and mighty lies,
The eternal demon:
Among the morning coffee cups,
The marshmallows and the buns,
Hides himself in the shadows,
Yours and Mine.

Damned yet boasting profound,
Of his legions strong and endless,
Fed on evil, every soul consumed.

Can't you hear,
The wailing plight,
Of the woods and the waters,
And of the frozen earth.

                                  G.K

What Was My Fault?

What Was My Fault?

One night, in a dream I woke,

Dwindling near Bethany I was;

There to the edge of the dusty road,

Lone standing, I saw, a tree's carcass.

A fig tree it was that I saw,

Shrieved, laconic, and dried;

Grief in his heart profound,

Denuded and barren, he cried.

A strange call to his place, I went,

To tell a tale yet untold;

"Pray tarry a while", said he,

From there wearily he called.,

It was one fine bright morn

When with many a disciple he came;

The Son of the Holy God he was,

Jesus, the Nazarene, his name.

He was hungry I guess,

For he, a while stopped by me;

Wandering his bloody eyes upon my branches,

To look for figs, on a fruitless tree.

No fruits there were on my branches,

For figs, it was not the season;

But he..... was angry and peeved,

And cursed me for that reason.

"May you never bear fruits again",

With a rage he muttered.

And I, that very sorry instant,

Became dry, sere, and withered.

WHAT WAS MY FAULT IN THAT?

WHAT WRONG DID I DO?

It was not the season for figs,

So bare, my branches too.

That tree with a mourning heart,

Made me think of God once more;

Holy, pure, and judge I thought he was,

But this way I never thought before.

What kind of thing was that,

To do to an innocent fig tree;

That it withered away instantly,

What God this Almighty be?

What kind of god was that?

What was there to inspire in his son?

Cursed a tree to death and decay,

Without any flagrant reason.

                                      G.K

A Rose With A Sigh.

A Rose With A Sigh

( On the pathetic situation of Manipur)

Music! The string of life,

Melody, the doleful sister twin;

Pulsate the vibrating turmoil,

Fill my cup of joy with tears. ( Or vice versa)

Oh! Trailing moods in ecstasy,

In the meadow of wild frenzy;

Counting the colours of the rainbow forever,

Flaming hearts in distant calls.

A rose with a wailing night,

Fragrance in the icy beads;

Trodden in frozen pavements,

A winter's tale, that is music.

In your birth,

A music was heard;

In my death...........

....... a poem is born.

                                          G.K