Category: Written in 1995

Despondency

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The tangled webs of cruel death and life;
The neutral shades of colour, black and white;
The bondage of hope and sacrifice;
The present darkness, and the absent light.
The horrible sun, the vain, dirty moon;
This sluttish earth, that lying, calling sky;
The maddening silence, that haunting tune;
The things that crawl, the wretched things that fly;
The prostitute Love, her diseased pimp Hate;
Bliss of oblivion, horrors of fame,
The bastards of destiny or of fate,
Be they anonymous or with a name.
The laugh of happiness or sadness’ cries;
This auctioned world of promises and lies.

To Bonzo

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

The words I write now may not seem so true,
And neither shall I plead forgiveness, dear,
For all I said and did just to hurt you.
For who shall see my grief, or the lone tear
That falls upon your grave besides the sea;
To whom shall I turn now? Who is all mine?
Sweet death, which lifts your soul to be set free?
Or Life, which is mortal, thus not divine?
I hearken! Yet I know, ‘tis but in sleep
I feel he sound your heart beats on mine own;
But when I see the dawn, I cease to weep
And thoughts of loss I can’t help but disown.
For when I weigh the smiles against the frowns,
My lone tear ‘mid the sea rapidly drowns.

2nd August

Like the Sweetness of Wine.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The life I lead is not the one I had;
I have no cause to call either one bad.
I think of years long gone, and feel the tears,
Which bear the pain that never disappears.
I then berate myself for thinking so;
For all those years have left as these shall go;
And as I watch the gentle fall of rain
Recalling times of joy, remembering pain –
I note that what had brought the joy and pain
Is long gone to never be seen again.
And then, I pause. Why weep? Oh, foolish me!
In pining for what was, I failed to see
That as those times are dead, so shall these go;
What rises high now may then crumble low,
And years from here shall I covet today,
For I do tend to think of yesterday.
The present makes its way into the past,
And often moulds the first to bring it last,
And since the old is sweeter than the new,
We see the rainbow but later its hue.
The life I lead is not the one I had,
It has to age enough to make me sad.

20th July