To The Crow

Chanakya Barai

O crow, I’m also a citizen

Like you at this city—

I have no dream and I am

Also tension-free like a

Vagabond thinker 

And like you

I am ever covet

Toward the garbage of this city…

Epitaph or Deed of Agreement

Maybe, one day these
silence of the century will be translated¬— a new chapter in the name
silence is added to your linguistics— if I fall asleep in that
moss-green tomb, you can rescind the voice of the stars. And join on my
epitaph in a soft tune— where immersion in the mountains— in the silence
of solitude.



The life that I have lived, it is not but
the bridge of the glorious name of childhood, boyhood, youth and old
age— and the death is- just a splendid bird— picks up ‘the soul’ from
deep in heart— as the sweet grain.



Everyday which
light comes to me— drilling the concrete of fog— I make it dance on my
palm like a spinning top. Thus I catch the earth on my hand. But, the
God remain doesn’t accept my friendship.



And you, a mirror imagery man— signed in deed of agreement of life and death for shadow.

A Miraculous Cavalier

Everyone thinks of becoming an
authority of star— but I don’t want it— I just want light of stars. If
someone says I want it because I am a poet— I would consider it, no
doubt. I follow the guidance of red china roses— I follow the guidance
of the ants which have just ended their hibernation. 



I am not a sailor— I fix my destination direction of the Constant— no faith on a compass— just for pole-love.



I
am the groom that horse, give him the dream-grass— there is nowhere to
access in the whole galaxy— consequently, can go to the Neptune for a
moment, Falkland, Zanzibar, Vanuatu or Shakira’s bedroom— I call it the
horse of imagine—



It is time of escape— Constant lit your light, I go to the holy mountain before the fall of the meteorite again—     

The Mourning for not returning Voices

Rather, a night
is mascara than a day— as the death than the life— oh, if I knew how
much oxygen allotted for me from the atmosphere— when does the last
moment breath in the lungs.



Oh giraffe, you have no
speech— what would be with such a long throat? Like me— how much talk
with the God— but He is beyond of human speech— rather, if I got a
linguist, I would learnt, how many letters in the God’s language.



Exactly,
who returns my words to me, he is none other, this dumb hill— I came to
know— it is just the breast of mother-earth— but it is he, who knows
the perfect sound imitation—



O echo, who is your great
sound-master? From which the joyous garden you get the satisfaction
regain the lost child— my words are returning to me like the pet hopper,
but to the sky— to the sea— to the desert, I throw the words hundred
times on this long life— nothing returned of that!

The Nocturnal City of Light

The nocturnal light patrols in the city. The moonlight doesn’t come breaking the wall— stars are dim.



The
noise has gone for sleeping— he is very sleepy— coming with terror, a
sleeping eye-truck the silence doesn’t remain here. He’s too afraid of
life. The desolate city square is— as a palm of magician— mysterious
palace.



The nocturne orange city— silent— everywhere— but in the lane some prostitutes enthusiastic eyes— burning like tiger’s eye.

The Sister

She is my twin-sister— lives in
Malotinogor— I call her moonlightgraph. We have never any mirror— to
look herself, she used to look me— I also looked her instead of a
looking glass.



She pets the white goose– and I do the pigeon— but we are separated for same lover— she lives in Malotinogor— and I am here.



I
send her a mail by a postman-wind— not getting a reply— I roam by
river— and see the image on water— as she is my twin sister— as that
birth-time deception— she looks me and laughs— 



O sister, are you the waving water now?