His Renunciation

He bid adieu, a graceful wave,
to the walks he had walked,
to the benches he sat upon.

A new life, an amulet envisioned,
he went by his street, a mere passerby,
wrote an epitaph for the life he had, once.

Showing no discontent, he left
not complaining the tasteless coffees,
feelingless cuddles he got, all those years.

Alas! He kept walking straight,
into his clairvoyance, his dream,
where he smelled, the life waft.

His uncanny love, pulled,
but all strings were none but broke,
and he walked straight, content.

What the future had on platter,
was his delight, never he knew so,
the gala there, they served nirvana.


© Rajat Mahajan. 2009

Focus

The world falls to me,
as I see; the infinite colours,
the stupendous languages,
the vast cultures.

I feel it all, coming in;
pounding my chest, I feel restless.
I feel suffocated, yet charmed;
my brain pauses logic.

I don't know what to do,
I don't know what I hear,
I don't know what I say,
I don't know who am I.

I really just don't know,
Who am I?


© Rajat Mahajan. 2009

The Guesthouse

On the wet monsoon evening,
the hint of the setting sun saw,
a leaf limbering down the path of sanctity.
Its course, wavered but smooth
few twirls on the way, but steady - it fell.

A percale rested it, in its sleeves,
the rosary of time counted its tick.
But all seemed standing, nothing but still,
looking at the redstone aghast!
Past fell to the curator's eye, to his ear.
They demanded their wish, all rightful.

He heard the voices creep,
into the waters, winds and skies around.
Perturbed, he sat on the railing he got made,
as they fell the guesthouse heights, morose.
Seeking sanity, a tear ran his face, onto
the floor, that for first was steady,
but changed to his sorrow, the pain,
the sorrow, the red.


© Rajat Mahajan. 2009

Thoughts so Impervious

The bohemian reached eclipse, the doom
of his glorious ways. His detritus dreams waited
for him to see, a horizon so gloomy.

He reached his hand out, felt
a liquid smother his dreams.
His flamboyant rhapsodies died,
he saw but held, didn't know why.

The ingenuity he was famed about,
did nothing but weep.
The sun seemed distant, yet scorch in the eye
where he saw, his fate so gloomy.


© Rajat Mahajan. 2009

Blitzkrieg

The arsenal doors shook open,
with the virgin step, the general shone.
Amidst the dust of decades,
that rustled after years of slumber.

Beyond the arachnoid rest,
a stream of blood waited to wake and flow.
The fireball rested as dead,
watching flames, in the the days to come.

The rifle's muzzle and trigger got,
what they had longed for - a hand.
That held them, let them free,
to a land destined, to be red.

The caravans loaded their backs,
with mortar and food, a little.
Bravery hummed the chest of men,
hiding all fear to death.

The valley seemed spectacular, as a feast,
the feast though the devil's.
He put on the kevlar and loaded,
his head and gun, with victory bullets.

Fire here and fire around,
bullets flew as birds.
Birds over the autumn lake - so dense,
the lungs seemed to hold.

Pounding heart, bursting spirits,
he overcame the slope to wind-
over the majestic mountain, smelling,
not fine, but metal warm.

And there came a bullet; kissed
him, at his heart.
Time witnessed dejavu, eyes widened,
gun dropped, sound dimmed.

The night rested there; The sun,
shone the heights to glory.
His men, searching; found him lay
smiling - a picture in hand,
a baby smile, a woman's content.


© Rajat Mahajan. 2009