Details |
Thoppil Bharathan Poem
Mother, your insanity is my blessing!
Your cry, like a creaking door,
Opens to a lawn of sour,
Your eyes, like a flame of candle,
Pierce to my heart that fails to handle.
And, your insanity is my blessing!
Because, I am not a son of your dream,
The essence that dripped out of the cream,
The life that burns as a wooden window,
The deep woods that drenched with heavy shadow,
Mother, I am not a son of your dream.
The dream of becoming a morning dew,
A song that moves a failing crew,
A dawn, a dusk and a poem with lovely words,
A canoe in search of unknown world,
And, I am not a son of your dream.
See, I am a warrior of a losing battle,
The blood was washed through the rains that clatter,
I see the children playing on the streets,
I do not know, is it sickle or flowers for them to treat?
I am not a son of your dream and still away from your curse,
Mother, your insanity is my blessing!.
Copyright © Thoppil Bharathan | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Thoppil Bharathan Poem
Be with me; in the twilight of day,
Under the gloomy shadow,
Amidst the whispering wind,
I am frightened; be with me.
New Year will come with all it’s hope,
Flowers will blossom, rain will come,
Festivals will stay, drums will beat,
And you will come; be with me.
From the gap of half opened door,
I see the candles drawing lines inside,
I see you, your face is pale, and eyes are wet,
Stop all and come; be with me.
Someone singing at far somewhere,
Is it a month of pilgrimage?
Stop your prayers and come to me,
Sing a lullaby, let me sleep; be with me.
Between the death and suicide,
My life travels like a train,
I want to sleep and wake up fresh
Like a dew and be with me; be with me.
Copyright © Thoppil Bharathan | Year Posted 2006
|
Details |
Thoppil Bharathan Poem
Mother, your insanity is my blessing!
Your cry, like a creaking door,
Opens to a lawn of sour,
Your eyes, like a flame of candle,
Pierce to my heart that fails to handle.
And, your insanity is my blessing!
Because, I am not a son of your dream,
The essence that dripped out of the cream,
The life that burns as a wooden window,
The deep woods that drenched with heavy shadow,
Mother, I am not a son of your dream.
The dream of becoming a morning dew,
A song that moves a failing crew,
A dawn, a dusk and a poem with lovely words,
A canoe in search of unknown world,
And, I am not a son of your dream.
See, I am a warrior of a loosing battle,
The blood was washed through the rains that clatter,
I see the children playing on the streets,
I do not know, is it sickle or flowers for them to treat?
I am not a son of your dream and still away from your curse,
Mother, your insanity is my blessing!.
Copyright © Thoppil Bharathan | Year Posted 2006
|