The Golden Birds

Poem By Khurshid Alam

The golden birds flock
To the fields
Fluttering and dropping beads
Weaving them into garlands.

At the day break
They count their valuables
One, two, three…and more and more
Yet they lament at their yields
They’ve gathered little; yearn for more.

Yet fluttering and yet dropping
Yet counting, yet lamenting.

Note: Published in Muse India, May-Jun 2009.

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A dropp of dew can enliven
the thirsty buds
can cause a new life
can create a reason.

The Mysterious Man

My mother scoffed at us for ours no fault
She had put sweets from offerings in a box
To distribute the sacred eating equally among us all:
“All should have equal favour”, she taught.

An Inclusive India

Ajnabi is registered a Christian at school
And bargains exemption of fee by half
And all miscellanies full; and sings hymns
To Jesus and celebrates Christmas.

In Disguise

They take shelter in the auto rickshaws
in the daylight and sit in much calm
in much commune with the police on patrol
and invite the passers-by at Laldarwaza.

I’m Slave To Myself

I’m slave to myself.
I’m slave to my desire:
My desire is boundless.
I’m slave to my fantasy:

Weave Dreams Into Act

We sleep to dream
We sleep to dreams
We wake to act
We wake to facts.