The wise words said by Ajanta, have helped us stop some commotion! A stopworthy feature from Ajanta’s blog. Definitely worth a follow.
To My Friends From Other Worlds
When comes the day when the world is one,
And people unbounded and merry.
When no babies wash ashore, limp and dead,
And when no souls are wounded or weary.
When the times are better, in a sense,
That a baby girl does not raise her hand,
And with quivering lips and alarmed eyes,
Surrender to a soldier’s unspoken command.
When the evenings are still eventful,
With people getting back home after dinner.
When no bodies need identification,
Be it of the killed or the killer.
When people are willing to love and learn,
And with compassion show their care.
When they willingly part with their tangible wealth,
And their bread, they heartily share.
When all hands can write and all minds can count,
And all pairs of mortal eyes can read,
When we’d no longer need to educate our machines,
To satiate our growing greed.
When none claims to be better than the other,
There’s no ‘third’ world, but one.
For when the need of a battle is questioned,
That very moment it is won.
I know it may take some time,
For our minds to be truly free.
We just affixed the last piece of the glass,
To look further, to better see.
And I also know that you are there somewhere,
Waiting perhaps for a sign.
Until you get the presents we sent your way,
Here, take a hint of mine.
A little birdie chirped that art and music,
Are decorations of space and time.
I hope your piercing vision can see my art,
In my poetry, may you find the rhyme.
I know not if you are an organism,
Absurdly alien, or comfortingly like my own.
All I know is that the skies I call heaven,
Is what you probably call ‘home’.
If you can hear me, then open your gate,
Let me see you in your glories and grief .
It is from the heart I try to communicate,
For my time here is quite brief.
If you take an eternity to pay a visit,
And tire my eyes for too long.
You may not find my bones in the earth,
But in the air, you’ll find this song..
Where would the mind be, if not in poetry, when on a search for a soul it goes? Why would it walk on lettered paths, that bear no resemblance to art? No melody beneath their folds, no charm in their beings, no warmth in their hearts? For poetry is but art. And I am only here to start.