Poem-3
The world has been flipped Jagadish, why are you sitting?
Keep walking forever, putting burdens on head!
Evening is at the end edge Jagadish, till
How long will you burn yourself? I’m tired being asking the same
Get up, right now. Banquet is over
With the smell of singed flesh
How long will you wait
Spreading a plate?
How many nights, you’ll bear insomnia Jagadish?
Deemed light of moon in you shabby hut
Tilted, fallen under the tide of moonlight.
By being isolated gradually
I’m far apart, like a blind-folded game
Sewing the dreams over the long mid-day, leaning on a tree
Not time to adorn them, in those left golden days
Only counting the drooling drops of rain in the ditch.
Need to go somewhere Jagadish?
I’ve talked to the time,
A piece of ode is kept
Under the margin of the flipped world
Coloured in orange-
I need to go there like a restless dawn-prowler
Will you go with me Jagadish?
Clouds rest, where stormy wind remains stagnant as saint
Yes, there! Odes dress there like Orange,
With a born-blind lover.