Skip to main content

The Resurrection


Reap my heart out, when i die

I have burnt it, until i die

Thus, want to free it from, tie

And bury it where the rose lie,


O my friend! Of my sorrowful life

Don't cry for the end, I got

With the painful vow, I swear,

I will be back, in the morning,

With the new life, with the new me.


O friend of mine! Something has to end,

To bring new life and new faith,

lying under the white shroud,

Pretending to be breatheless, thoughtless

is just an act.


I am alive in your heart and soul

With the glimpse of my parts,

I and you travel along.


O the friend of mine! Go and burn me,

I am not willing to stay here,

carrying the wight of your tears,

dropping in my soul.


O my friend! Cheer up! The dark is at end

I am going away from you in the heaven,

To demand for light, to demand for new day

wait for-awhile, wait for-awhile

I will back in the morning with the new day.

I will back in the morning with the new day.

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Thank you for your precious opinion.

Popular posts from this blog

Be human not patriotic

The definitions may differ But the idea remain same Human may differ But the humanity remain same The tears of fear, the revolution for boundary. We are of earth not earth is of ours, Roamers creating rumour, Of nature entirely unnatural, Defining identity with opinions, But opinion isn't identity, Breaking the law of identity. Creating the chaos in calmness, Diluting the water with impurity, Pebbling the peace with violence, Being patriotic forgetting humanity, Life of one is greater than country. Emotion of one is more than thought, Politics being corrupted, With the lust of power, Avoiding the reality; We are of earth not earth of ours Thus, be human not patriotic........
Post a Comment
Read more

The Best Life?

Life itself is a question, very hard to answer — or an answer to a question never asked. Along with this dire doubt, adding the adjective in front of it without any clarification is weird, if you ask me. But what determines good or bad, better or worse, best or worst? Any combination of these two adjectives gives meaning when attached to life, yet the meaning shifts depending on who is holding the measuring stick and what century they happen to be standing in. In times past, priests set the rules for the best life. Connecting or being close to the divine — obedience, ritual, humility before God — these were the coordinates by which a life could be plotted and judged. The blueprint was clear. Follow it and you were promised something beyond this life, which conveniently made the suffering inside this life easier to tolerate and easier to administrate. But did these rules ever work for all humans to have a good life? The serf who prayed daily and died young of famine was technically foll...
Post a Comment
Read more

THE SILENT VOICES

Preface I didn't write this poem to be a poet. I wrote it because I kept watching people fall, into darkness, into numbness, into the kind of life that moves but doesn't feel. And I couldn't stop seeing it. The ones who run the streets at midnight. The ones who reach for something holy and come back with bloody hands. The ones who know exactly what freedom would feel like but stand trembling at the door of it. This poem is for them. It is also, honestly, for me. It is loud because the silence was louder. It is messy because the truth usually is. It reaches for Nietzsche and Gollum and E=mc² not to sound clever but because that is genuinely how a mind in pain moves, everywhere at once, grabbing at anything that might explain the weight. I don't know if it is a good poem. I know it is an honest one. If you are someone who has ever felt too awake for this world, too aware, too feeling, too much, then maybe some line in here will find you. That is all I was ever hoping for....
Post a Comment
Read more