Tag: poem

No One Learns

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia2 Comments

Seasons turn, turn, turn;
In bursts and years, life ages;
Regrets burn, burn, burn
And all of life rages.

Suns and moons stay and fade;
Leaves grow to become dust;
Everything breaks that once was made;
Nature does what nature must.

Feelings change, they alter.
Even though truth doesn’t lie,
It, too, can falter, falter,
And can quietly die.

Fear makes things cling to stay:
Do love, though it may not survive;
There is always night after day,
Do try to keep one alive.

Mothers hate sons in time,
A Son cannot be a Daughter,
What is yours cannot be mine,
Not tears, not laughter.

No one learns, learns, learns,
You think you can change it all,
This thought yearns, yearns, yearns,
As faith’s empires fall.

Each Drop (Part Two)

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I have lived, years without you now;
Water and wind, move fast, move past;
Everything is mutable here,
Abstract or concrete, nothing lasts.

The monsoon winds are strong
And I remember you wet in rain.
You left – them, long ago;
But here they are wetting everything again.

I’m lying in bed,
Thousands of minutes away,
And remaining here,
Think of the gods who cast me away.

I heard a song, that reminded me
Of the way you turned to look at me,
And I cried a bit – maybe more –
Remembering all we used to be.

Now, my darling, I’m not afraid.
There is no fear of living or dying;
Because it’s just a road, taking me
To the place, where you’ll be lying

In wait, with all the rest who went before
To become the value of this life –
Who will profess how well I lived
And vouch for each drop of love and strife.

That’s what it all comes down to:
This journey traversing me and you:
A meeting, a distance and a gate
And all that’s eventually true.

If not, I have, yet, nothing to fear:
There won’t be a calling back…
I’ll give voice to wind and heart to water,
And fade upon the stars dressed in black.

Once upon a week

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

If you make love once a week,

You’re still in love,

They say.

I am confused.

Modernity has made

A breath, over the ear

That reaches down

Into the reddest corpuscle,

Into a statistic.

How many words

Indicate love then?

How intense should be

A look?

How long should be

A kiss?

How many pages are

Too many,

Too little,

For a book?

Should the book be read

Fast or slow?

If you cannot read me,

Then who would know?

It takes time

It all takes time.

The sun is brighter,

The snow caps lighter.

Statistics abound.

The world is ending.

The sun was too hot

For humanity.

The sun will win.

But their stats

Can not predict the when.

I know the breath.

I know the book.

I know the sun.

I know the look.

In relation to me.

Give me the stat

And I will accept it and

Place it to read

Years later.

If the sun hasn’t won until then,

I’ll validate the importance

Of a week.