Indian Identity Strife

I​ forgot my ID once,

it is a tree now back home,

in my backyard.

... My identification marks,

​birth scars, dots and dotcoms,

are under a blanket

where it hides, 

alongside some books, 

a moral compass, an ethnic passport,

and the Indian constitution.

They await judgement,

for free will is not theirs,

not anymore,

not on these streets.

-- Leslie

Pic: Courtesy DNA

Peachy Love

​​​​Fresh flowers, moist,
float down,
​a bit after t​​he morning sun
lit up your eyes..​.
​
The buds reach your lips,
swaying down from their pedestal,
the lone peach tree up the hill​.​
Coerced​ down by the whiff of 
a mint-laced mountain breeze
​- his breath reaches yours​,​
his soul ​touches your lips,
a dance follows,
​serene like a river's flow,
wild like its roar.​​

The solitary Peach tree near The Goat Village Nagtibba (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)

Brownian Destiny

​She beholds 'em in awe,

the falling leaves of spring,

the Palash bloom who,

in jest,

tapped her left shoulder;

made her turn right,

towards the right hues of life,

bright red, dreamy yellow.​​

We too,

I sigh and smile,

live our Brownian lives,

swaying with the mystical laws...

Of physics, blessings and fate,

our dreams and destiny.

Pic: Sreetama Bagchi

Clair de Lune

​To hear the silent,

lonely song of the moon tonight,

I strained my heart,

climbed up the winding stairs

of my creative will,

each step stained with sweat

of the masons who built them.

Wonder if they are alive,

do they climb stairs too,

to try and hear this song I crave.

Silence...

That's what we all get,

even the living masons,

the dead artistes,

after a futile chase.

For what we possess is 

a bit of noise, quite a lot,

which we clang up

living by some mortal algorithm.

Look up above, I plead,

in Clair de Lune

lie our immortal visions, life's rhythm!