A Hope for Bravery of all the Nirbhayas’


She fought valiantly,
The aggressors on her modesty.
The only mistake she made ,
Was to travel with unknown people.
Her so called fault was to be out at night,
In a country where all walk shoulder to shoulder.

She took her freedom for granted,

It did not please the lusty perverts.
They attacked her with all vehemence,
Tearing off the shreds of her innocence,
And her faith in humanity and humans.
They robbed her off her modesty,
But they failed to kill her spirits.
She fought and fought to stay alive,
To see her offenders get punished by law.
She had to die against her wishes,
But her will to live has left us in awe.
Though she is no more but she did a favour,
She united her countrymen against all odds.
We now wait to see the justice done,
We protest and brave all odds.
Let’s hope we do not fail her ,
In the cause we fight for her today.
Let’s hope the rapists will get eradicated
And the judgement leaves a trail of fear ,
In the perverts who want their way.

Love the Greatest Boon From Above

Love is like a circle with no beginning and no end, magically,

It is a motivational force, flooding hearts warmly.

Being as good as worship this great boon from above, 

The more we give, the more we gain by giving boundless love. 

Nay, love heals, like a balm, acts as an antidote, so very efficacious,

Bringing much serenity, being so potent and such a powerhouse.

.

©Pushmaotee Subrun

Credit Yourself

Whatever we are today,
Is our perseverance, sincerity,
Hard work, and ardent zeal,
In favour of destiny and divinity.

Bad is ours and good is also ours,
We are our own creation,
Manifestation of our own thought,
Desires, faith, and enthusiasm.

Destiny is being created every moment,
By determination, desire, action, and faith,
All credits goes to us if we have consciously,
Created and adorned the blank canvas of life.

Asha Roy

27 February 2021


A Bend in the Road

Part 1

( What do you call it ? )

The Beginning

Silence

Dim light

A country road

When a country road
Winds through nuclear waste
Heaped up like old dead rubbish
From a rotting town in a gangrenous world
What do you call it ?

When a tree stands alone
In those withered wastes
By that very road
A tree that looks like a dead stump
Incapable of growing fresh leaves
Not the brood of the rood
What do you call it ?

When the day
is always overcast
When it is always twilight
The starry firmament obscured
Except when it is pitch dark :
What do you call it ?

When life is just
A wait for death
And your feet ache
All the time
When your shoes don’t fit
Most of the time
And your socks stink
And stocks sink :
What do you call it ?

Country , Rowed ?
Country , Harrowed ?
Or
Country , Rode
Or Ridden
Into a Midden .

( ASA )

After.


On the turning point, we now gaze back on what we left.
Talk is enough for where and who we are…way to much for us to cope.
Looking frail is what’s waiting for us in the not so far distance of existence
After Earth will be libarated, cleansed by Earth’s big swipe.
We stand stopped, we stod on remain’s and tread on our grand theft.
Under a barely recognisable sky, those below gasp for air and hope.
Over the peaks they see us with their twice stung shoulder’s and
gold-woven sixpence. After the last change in codes, they make sure the cure is ripe.

After…

after what, comes after the next after…

What comes after, after all is gone…

after we see it all fall…


These day we learn to let go and say goodbye.
Speechless we stand here without any word to say.
After all is gone out of our hands, what’s left is the true lie.
No one left to feel and descripe the feeling of the Sun’s warm ray.
Mostly we miss the close touch of skin, feeling the warm pulse of blood’s rush.
We are born with imaculate dreams, attached with strings we never even known.
The changes is not for those who can, it’s for the few observing.
After the never seen sunrise, who see the sun melt into a golden sea.

After

after what, comes after the next after…

what comes after, after all is gone…

after we see it all fall…

What will happen when life is faded and our monument’s crumple by the touch.
Like a sky we never seen here, alternated version’s of reallity roam
and not ever shown.
It’s sour indifferance in what we choose, it’s all going round in an
everlasting ring.
Maybe we are ment to go blindly without the knowledge and never really be free.
These day’s we lost grib of our control, if it was ever there.
Tired we give in for the everlasting sleep hiding the imaculate dream.
After the curtain’s fall we feel the real tear of culture.
Day’s end up in a depived world where only emptyness send it’s lonely scream.

The cake eating elephant

My dog is looking straight in my eyes

How are you today?

Still tired, still in bad shape?

You said the sun will resolve all of these

That we will take long walks in the park

We will visit our favourite gardens and trees

No, you don’t leave that damn armchair

That prison that you, yourself built around you

Every morning you make promises

Look the sun is up, we will take a long stroll today

Only the mouth is moving

I see, I can definitely see

The shroud of death coating your body

I practically smell it

Sure I pretend to be cheery

To ignore the elephant in the room

The elephant sinking in that armchair

Yes, you!

I am talking about you here!

The elephant eating cakes in this room

It is you, lady!

I am going on the hallway now

to watch the roast in the oven

No point discussing further

You’ve already been swallowed by the TV screen

Wearing the Crown of Motherhood

The first sparks of life from a tiny bundle of cells,

Product of blissful love, hope and chiming bells,

I know when the nausea and giddiness will go soon,

I shall wear the crown of motherhood and be on the moon,

With the strength of motherhood, already protecting you from the world’s threat,

With the purest love, my darling, you will always hold my heart!

.

©Pushmaotee Subrun

A Letter



A letter is
an intimate conversation
between two people
the one who writes opens a door
for the reader to enter
one’s personal space
often sacred and vulnerable
a narrative of timeless wait
for the reader it is an act of love
as if one enters that time
when one was thought of fondly 
may be missed passionately 
that frozen piece of time is
packed and parceled
with utmost care
once it is read
it is frozen in memory
If unanswered
It throbs eternally
like  an endless saga
of longing and waiting
a letter is nothing less
than a miracle.