You are the blank canvass
On which I would ever paint,
The art that no ill will surpass
Neither could hatred make faint.
Each time before me you pose
Like a replica of the Mona Lisa,
My ink is aroused to compose
Beautiful arts of you, my Melissa.
Oh, I wonder what I would do
If I was gifted like Michelangelo—
Perhaps all I’ll always paint is you
If I ever become like Picasso!
Yet I need not to be that excellent
To paint you my love, every moment.





Heredith the king of Zilba
In the sixth year of his reign,
Fell in lust with Roseline Amelia
The wife of the king of Spain.

And what a misery he did found
Since his eyes met with hers,
That it really had him bound
With chains behind unseen bars.

Many a time on his throne
Was he engaged in a dialogue
—With no one but himself alone
Speaking for a time so long.

All day he hoped in his gloom
That she’d someday be his,
Even if that meant the doom
To which he’d trade his peace.

“O, if she could just be mine”,
Was the line he always uttered;
“O, if she and I could always dine”,
Was another he also whispered.

But he couldn’t have his way
Any further than his obsessions,
So he concluded on a very day
To resort to confrontations.

“Summon me my war men!”,
He yelled in his tempered fury;
If only he could just discern
That he was to become a history.

And off he rode with them all
In a return battle for the woman
For whom he didn’t care to fall
To the sword of another man…

When alas he drew his sword
To slaughter Simon the king,
Amelia for whom he came abroad
Stabbed him with a broken ring.

And there where he laid to die,
He looked at her and smiled;
“But O my Roseline, why O why?”
And in tears he asked and died.



portrait-of-leo-tolstoy-as-a-ploughman-on-a-field-1887When to the daily clarion call
The ploughman takes a toll no more,
Nor after the season of rainfall
Could he record its harvest’s score;

When on the terrains of his farm
He could not till his fertile soil,
Nor could he weigh gram for gram
The outcome of his ceaseless toil;

When by the famous town hill
He could not stop to see the king,
Nor could he visit his friend Jill
To watch him laugh and also sing;

When under the big juniper tree
Where he always sits to wine,
The neighbours pass by severally
And there he shows not a sign;

Then he must have laid to rest
As usual after the work of the day,
When in him death took interest
And decided to take him away.




Place him on that platform gently
Lest you tamper with his smile;
Wash him there thoroughly
Before he travels another mile:
For home he goes, sweet home he goes,
A man who no longer have woes.

Clothe him with a fine apparel
As is meet for an august occasion;
The time of his departure go tell,
And let’s begin the procession:
For home he goes, sweet home he goes,
A man who no longer have woes.

Gather them all—young and old—
To bid him their last goodbyes;
Let them his remains behold
And shed no tear from their eyes:
For home he goes, sweet home he goes,
A man who no longer have woes.

Not a single shot of gun salute,
Nor the faintest sound of jamboree;
But as silent as a voiceless mute,
The atmosphere should likewise be:
For home he goes, sweet home he goes,
A man who no longer have woes.

“And these let be of me, when to sweet home I go”




Let not my appreciation of thee
Make thee take me for a soothsayer;
Neither as lust choose thou to see
All I post to thee now and hereafter.
My muse can bear witness to it
That far from such faults I truly care,
For right here in my heart the beat
Never stops for all I hold so dear.
But if to thy own understanding still
I am guilty of that which I try to dodge,
Then what right have I over thy will
And thy discretion to duly judge?
Yet, love is not my alibi; lust is not my lie;
So, a fair judgement is what demand I.




Hamas is a poor boy,
And he has no parents—
Not even a single toy
To relish these moments.
Nine years old is he,
But with hundred sorrows;
I’d rather dine with him
And fulfill Christ’s purpose!

He looked in my eyes,
And I was soon in tears;
O what a smile he has
Even when no one cares!
He sought for a friend,
But only Jesus came;
Then why should I not
Replicate this very same?

Set us a table for two—
For me and Hamas;
This my soul delights to do
On a day like Christmas.
Not with the world’s famous,
Not with earth’s richest;
If Christ were here today,
He’d dine with the poorest.




Indeed no greater vanity than this,
That man should be but for few days—
Despite his conquests of daily increase
In the pride of his breathtaking pace!
To have it all but mere shadows,
Are all there is the gain for his toils:
For in no way different from sparrows
Would his flesh rotten into rich soils!
O, what then is the folly of a man worth
That he should be a fool all through?
Why would he not to the truth come forth
And surrender to that which is true?
Emptiness is all there is without GOD;
Against such, no man can forge a sword.