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Poems

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Submitted By Swarnaav
Words 826
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RAT RACE…
Deep into the night...
As the world goes still...
The rat race heavy on his mind...
The poor student reads on... Till...
Dawn beckons...
And the rat reckons,
That yet another Day has gone by...
And yet the goal seems but a distant dream...
Like a mirage playing games with the thirsty's schemes...
Dawn never felt so insipid before...
And all this to improve my score...
An exam I wish I didn't have to write...
Why! I was happier in my higher flights...

GET GOING…
A shadow of his former self
Stared down his shoulders...
And asked him what he had made of himself,
All these years smashing against the boulders...

He replied that He had learnt
Lessons of Life, pitting himself against the odds,
And his desires he had burnt,
In the flames unleashed by the Gods…

He agreed, that He had lost more than he had gained,
In this trial, all along believing his karma to be the culprit,
But how was He to know the will of His which reigned,
Across the three worlds, Who unfailingly does His grace remit…

When it but dawned on Him,
It was the proverbial never-too-late that struck,
A chord within, And set Him on a Circadian Rhythm,
Of sorts, A Rhythm which provides both lack and Luck…

Hope my story inspires others, and never does perish,
And You too can do it my friend, if you only so do wish……

THE POOR MAN’S SONG
The chills got me started;
And all other thoughts departed;
To make way for a poor man's song;
To let them know it's not just winter over here for the Bong...

It's a realization of the fact;
That while you lie idling in your blanket so cosy;
And dream dreams so rosy;
People out there are struggling to make it to the next morning, intact...

But the God, ever so cruel,
Shall not spare some...
They could have made it with a little fuel;
Or maybe a little rum;

But it wasn't to be...
Yes, some shall depart;
And in the wee hours of the night, all of this, through the mind's eye I see,
And go back to sleep, with a heavy heart.......

ON EMPATHY…
In times of grief and sorrow;
When it seems like there’s no tomorrow,
You find a friend who cares,
For he himself stares,
At defeat as do you…

A friend who himself is;
At the zenith, should least be bothered,
When you are ill-at-ease…

How is it then, that the columnists,
Dare speak;
Of issues with alacrity and insight keen,
Perhaps even drawing a comment or two;
From over-zealous patriots bent on reforms..

Only if they could but stay a single night;
In the tin-sheds on which they throw light…

I should too start thinking of changing my occupation;
And take up writing for my profession.

Written on the occasion on Anna Hazare parting ways with Arvind And Co…
A tragedy averted in the nick of time,
You proved your worth to the last dime,
When in unison, you led the chase,
In the face of discord, you gently parted ways...

Such should indeed be the spirit, O' brave,
Of my fellow countrymen who cry for change,
Only if they knew that the war they wage,
Must first be fought within this bodily cage...

ADOLESCENCE…
A veil of insecurity;
That hangs over us....
Once we step out of puberty...
Into the wilderness....

Rarely do we pause to look...
And ask ourselves...
Whether the innocence we left behind...
Would ever be a part of our selves...

Is it not an irony then, that we should talk of being secure,
And then cover our visages with a veil,
Of security,
Which so very easily gives us away,
And makes the viewer feel,
Where does the road to child-like innocence lay....

MOTIVATION…
When in high spirits,
Keep them high; when your spirit's sagging, take a deep sigh....

A bit high and a bit low,
That's how it all goes,

For that's God's way of keeping you...

On your toes......
Commiserating with my fellow LLA takers...

LLA PAINS…

Ah… To hell with these labour laws…
All that I can now feel is the claws…
Of time, eager to eat away from me…
The few precious hours that lay before I see…

The questions that are bound to baffle,
And the answers that are bound to rattle,
The prof’s brains…
And bring him greater pains…

Brevity is what he does preach…
But it is simply beyond our reach…
We are too much given to pfaff…

Someone said, it runs in our blood…
And with words we shall flood…
The answer sheet… Till it appears full…
And gives Sir one more chance to pull…

Up our socks in vain... And say...
This habit, I'm telling you, it's like a cancer...
And however much you may...
At best, it is a Paani puri answer...

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...their unfaithful lovers than happiness. I’m not really surprise. Woman always find something to complain about when they don’t get what they want. There is difficulty in labeling the trobairitz as either amateurs or professionals. The distinction between these two roles was complicated in the medieval era, since professionals were generally lower class, and amateurs had as much time as professionals to devote to their craft. The poem written by the Contessa de Dia is a canso. When discussing troubadour and trobairitz poetry, it is important to realize that they were a piece of entertainment .These poems were largely of political or moral nature. The troubadour would sing or recite poetry while playing harp during the Medieval Period the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. These poems were about more than sex they were about intimacy. The poets would sing of longing, chivalry, a gentleness that we express even now when we speak of the art of love. I really like the poetry even the poems that sing of infidelity or wanting what is forbidden. With each poem or story you can envision what is felt. Troubadours and...

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