Ave Maria


Shot her reflections divine,

Shone glass from the Church’s spine,

Amidst jeers, tears and cheers,

Past cries from an innocent rewind,

From those meadows, wails of the sheep and the swine,

Treads ahead the nervous bride,

Petals rain from all sides,

Fate has her trampling them,

No matter to save some,

How hard she did try,

Triggers and barrels guard her walk,

Lead bursts in skies above,

For a life in arms of the barter of death,

A drop of love in that ocean red,

Her surrender to the Holy Cross,

On the altar awaits her share of sin-gloss,

Her skirt’s cathedral train rubs away the ground’s pain,

She drags it across the aisle, suppressing frowns,

When against lovelorn lips of the groom,

Shy, her sight sweeps down,

Scared, she freaks out, a blemished start,

On her kismet, bull’s eye scores the poisonous dart,

Her wedding gown was already wearing a blood stain…



(From the wedding party of the son of one of Colombia’s most feared and wealthy drug lords. Visualized on and inspired from Franz Schubert’s famous Opera composition, ‘Ave Maria’. For the musical piece, visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bosouX_d8Y

The Ave Maria (Latin) (Hail Mary) is a traditional Catholic prayer asking for the intercession of the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus. For more, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ave_Maria)



Image Credit :http://www.bloominglovelyweddings.com.au/wedding-church.html

Slaves of Pleasure


We’re the Human Senses,

No boundaries can bind us,

No walls, No thorny fences,

We’re restless, on a perpetual hunt,

Blinded selfish, we’re focused blunt,

Sniffing out our only treasure,

Pleasure, Pleasure and more Pleasure,

It shouldn’t end us all at once,

Nothing more matters in advance,

So, there’s a land that I know,

Beyond those grassy shores of Mexico,

That swore by Adam and Eve with a lot of sincerity,

To serve us till eternity,

With its only worthy fruit,

The one that offers us the finest bliss,

In abundance, everywhere, supplies are infinite,

Useless are thy laws, in vain the violence,

We are the Human Senses, it is by nature,

That we’re slaves of Pleasure…


(Dedicated to the ongoing efforts glowing futile to root the fatal Narco-Trade thriving on the absence of alternate livelihood choices,and poverty, out of Latin America.)

Image from : http://teamsternation.blogspot.in/

Doctor This, Doctor That!


The Allied-Eraser grew monstrous,

For stubborn stains, it had direct orders,

To tear pages off the flap,

Customized to rub Nazi land from the map,

Came along Soviet scissors,

Armed to the teeth, yawn-less with night-vision,

To snip wings of lethally toxic ambition,

Switch off German National Socialist lights, forever,

Featherless, stripped naked of power,

He scavenged the ground for scattered dreams,

Leaves from his meritorious past, devilish conquests,

Snaps of enemies in blood and screams,

It was all over, damn ‘Heil Hitler!’

The Dictator now, imitated the rag picker,

Sins wore his soul weak and weaker,

He had to depart, then and there,

Summoned him ‘Failure’,

His most competent Archfiend,

For his final lap, his walk of retribution,

The last stretch to his end…


This was the time, when unnoticed served this scarred angel,

Deep below that violent surface of this earth,

He tended thousands of injured, bleeding and the wounded,

No else, could cook some medicinal stew in there,

Until he reached them,

Limbs were sawed down, not operated,

Crying mouths with tranquilizers were stubbed, suffocated,

No one could be cured, no one could be medicated,

Amidst that mutilated, sobbing multitude,

In that make-shift hospital,

Out of an underground bunker to escape air-raids,

With unskilled aid,

Relentlessly at service, that doctor lost count of nights and days,

He drank horror, on insomniac glimpses he fed,

Images of slaughtered green heroes,

In repentance, wails of limbless carnivores,

Unstirred, unfazed, by infectious fumes of brutality,

The only one who survived those lethal gases,

Sprayed to suck out of creatures around, every trace of humanity,

Forgiven were murderers,

No confessions needed human-butchers,

Roamed around zombies, once soldiers,

Dead were their ideals,

Dead was their honor,

Gone was the Führer, their Protector,

Abandoned in Berlin, for duty Divine,

Unnerved served Werner Haase, that Nazi Doctor…

With the century ready to wake up to a new morn,

I wonder if that selfless spirit of service is still there?

Or, with that doctor decayed in Kazakov’s Butyrka*,

That spotless dedication to God’s work is gone?


This doctor from the Latino city of Curitiba,

Unscathed by human suffering and pain,

Wore Thanatos’ robe to decide ends,

Terminated the ones critically ill,

To reduce her workload against Lord’s will,

Empty captured ICU beds,

Get rid of escalating stress,

Murder, present her patients, a quiet death,

And be done with, after quickly distributing death certificates…


Though, both dealt in human life,

This doctor served to terminate,

That doctor served to preserve and recreate,

In the Gallery of Motives,

One stood statured in wax,

While, the other chose to hide…


(A reflection on two doctors – Dr. Werner Haase and Dr Virginia Soares de Souza, influenced by the 2004 German film, Der Untergang (Downfall), world history, and the latest global headlines.

Dr. Haase fought death, served to heal like only a few could, when Russians were taking over Berlin in 1945, while Dr. Soares had the audacity to grant death to her patients, only to reduce the mounting pressure in the ICU of Curitiba’s Evangelical Hospital, Brazil.

*Butyrka Prison, Moscow (Matvey Kazakov, its architect) is the place where Dr. Hasse died in the year 1950, serving his term as a POW.

For more visit:







Images from : http://www.vebidoo.de, http://www.saglikekibi.com

Florida Street LIVE !!!


Scaling shutters stretched a way, French Neoclassical,

Some open, some shut, some blinked witty high,

Some lost to illusory graffiti on biscuit cheeks,

Suited in different shades of cream,

Flaunting their European muscles, they sank in anonymous pride,

Chiseled Italian, the walls, stood arms in arms,

Towering Godfathers, ignorant of their forlorn present,

Burning fruitlessly in their aura,

Rubbed sticky with a balm, self-perceived Utopian,

Attention starved, tapping away their blues to beats of Tango,

Live on the cobbled sideways of Florida Street,

Touching up the atmosphere with a turpentine base of brown,

Rhythmic strokes on the canvas of Buenos Aires’ ‘Culture Crown’,

Shunning internal affairs to oblivion,

They put up a grin to cover,

Entertained jolly, they’re there to watch, forever…



Strummed guitars, cracked the drums,

Breathless sang flutes,

Violins stroked in pain,

Harps comforted weary brains,

They all joined in harmony,

From pavements, had a smitten multitude stop by,

Thigh taps of melody from every corner, every side,

Floral shirts, baggy shorts, three quarters and pastel linens,

Feet sandal clad thumping to the tune,

Souls free from bondages, make-up and fad,

Jammed music that could have you imagining,

Tom, Jerry and Chaplin strolling free,

Effortlessly, spitting out mute comedy,

Oozed talent from roadsides,

Beside stalls exhibiting aesthetics of the unknown,

In front of galleries for the ones, well known,

Corners of departmental stores,

Shopping Plaza ground floors,

They were everywhere,

Careless of their audience swell and shrink, shrink and swell,

Some donate out of gratitude, all impressed well,

Some simply shake free, stand by and enjoy,

Shop to the tunes, hog on needy culture fries…




(From Florida Street, Buenos Aires, famous for its street musicians, shopping arcades, culture hawkers, and restaurants. )




Images from :http://lh4.ggpht.com, http://www.cooltownstudios.com, http://suanneonline.blogspot.in/,http://worldcruise2010.travellerspoint.com

Lovelorn in Cholula


Crackled the skies of Cholula,

Winds from the past,

Caught trees, scrubs and bushes by their ears,

Punishingly swayed them,

By now they should’ve been well acquainted,

With the tale of this ancient land,

Tilled for eras with spades of death,

With lovelorn Mayan shadows,

Their graves hid under the grass,

Locked around them forever, now restless in their eternal meadows,

Dragging their bruised souls, unattended since the Classic Period,

Hauling their feet across Mesoamerican sand,

Still, sleepless from vintage fears,

Historic colors, the ceaseless current in their tears,

Scorned unexpected,

Trees shoved their sight down to the turf,

Low with shame,

While well-shaved green blades,

Tidy with care from great-great-great sons and daughters,

Overflowing with respect for their pre-historic ancestors,

Looked up at the leaves,

Pinched dumb, green vision to turn nowhere,

They were ready to listen, learn and remember,

Thunder bursts, applaud jolted from above,

From Heaven’s department of Mexico,

Time for lessons from that chilly tempest of time,

Scared, they were ready to hear…


AD 275, that was the year,

The Princess had her youth turning gold,

Her desires ripening,

Her soul burning in fires of passion,

Swollen lips, innocent eyes,

Her nurtured tan craved a man,

She wanted her dream to blossom now,

One that she’d been nourishing since she’d been a little one,

Peeping into the court-room, into majestic sessions,

For only a glimpse of his divine knowledge,

His broad shoulders,

Ones on which rested celestial responsibilities,

The future of their pre-Columbian land,

His power to talk to the Gods,

Bring in Their message for the Lord,

Connect worlds together,

Dexterity at everything from astrology to historiography,

Had her mesmerized since ever,

Till the Mayan Priest,

Eclipsed her senses to everything else,

Had them enslaved to him,

Addicted to his mojo forever…


Little did she know she had a fate,

That would soon start leaking overflowing irony,

That would be soon charcoaled black,

Mourned the kingdom when she was fifteen,

Their King on the brink of death’s cliff,

Everything done, everything tried futile,

It was time for a precious human sacrifice,

She’d thought of a rebellious future,

Her dream to fight the royalty,

Voice up her will to marry off the Priest,

To have him as the unstoppable heir to the throne,

Will be slaughtered, was unthinkable for her little soul,

And, here she was tied to the golden bed,

Lying helpless, her mouth sealed before the temple,

The same cold blooded Worship Preacher, her love,

Getting ready to chant celestial spells,

Green flag her sacrifice,

For he believed only the Princess’ blood,

Could please thirsty Gods,

Heal their King, have Him revived…


Interred somewhere around the Great Pyramid of Cholula,

Her soul roamed the terrain,

Leaped across wilderness of time,

Days and nights, she would spend gazing the church,

Shining on the hill by the field of Mayan graves,

She believed her love was born again as its pastor,

It had defied every law of chronology and age,

It now seeks sympathy,

If not, then gratitude, a share of her royal loyalty,

Maybe support from every breathing organism standing on her soil,

The Mass is on inside,

In his black robe, he would be soon walking out,

The hour of confrontation hath arrived,

Greens of every size,

Join in a collective prayer,

Beg the Gods to have mercy at last,

For today, love shall travel through unsolved labyrinths of space,

Break apart clocks of this universe,

Escape the maze of births, for once and for all,

Catch hold of her love’s new birth,

Have him repent for his age-old sins,

In captivity, have him motionlessly devoured divine,

After, kissing magic to freeze his spine…



(Scripted around the Great Pyramid of Cholula, Puebla, Central Mexico. For more on this historic Pre-Columbian archeological site, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cholula_%28Mesoamerican_site%29, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Pyramid_of_Cholula)

Images from : http://www.panoramio.com, http://travelingted.com, http://acmrs.org, http://www.mainlymedieval.com

The Last Party

Ran here, ran there,

They ran towards me,

Against my face,

More of them,

Rushing at me,

Couldn’t get through,

Couldn’t pass any,

Clogging my nostrils,

Blinding me,

Breathing all the black smoke,

Choking, I couldn’t see anymore,

Clashing against chests,

Trying to push me down,

Run over me,

My feet felt them everywhere,

I tripped on a leg, hand or a head,

Soon, amongst them,

More crashed on me,

Burying me suffocated,

Pressing on my eyes, my mouth and my nose,

Pitch dark, breathless, crushed, trampled,

…a ping in my ears,

And, then charred silence…



(I dedicate this post to the victims and their families of the 27th January’2013 Night Club fire in Santa Maria, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil that claimed 245 young lives.

The world mourns the incident, and so does my country and me…)


Amazon Oars


The Oars! Where were they?

My arms almost tore apart in pain, as I searched for the pair of oars in vain…

For a boat as small as this, weren’t they a bit too huge to disappear in thin air?

Under my seat, beside the fishing rod kept aside, I looked everywhere,

There wasn’t any space left unsearched in that little boat of mine.

Like a grandfather, who even after losing his walking-stick, was holding on to his grandson, in his arms,

He was willing to fall, and willing to endure it all,

Trying his best to keep the baby, away from a single scratch,

The boat without its oars, was simply afloat,

For all that it could now do was to ensure, I was dry…

Oaring could be fun,

But only with a partner to help you in turns,

For a first-timer, trying to oar across a stretch of the unfathomable Amazon,

Was an idea that was not only dangerous, but was also overdosing on optimism,

But, that was the only way out for my scared spirit,

Scared of never-ending layers of darkness,

Pulled over eternally, by the dense, unforgiving broadleaf tropical rainforest,


Scared of the Jaguar’s volcanic eyes,

Of the Black Caiman, as it seemed ever ready for turns to hunt me down,

Of poisonous Dart Frogs, and the Vampire Bats,

All of whom were at their fieriest,

For each and every one of them knew,

They were blessed with skyless Amazon nights,

Always there, ready to conceal their sins, their blood-soaked mouths,

Ready to their rescue…


I took to the water, for I knew,

It was only from here that I could avoid the dew, sense the sunlight,

Bathe in its warmth,

For all I wanted to feel,

Was that the night, was still not powerful enough to engulf us, completely,

The Sun was there, gleaming on the equator, and guarding our backs with a smile,

As if, continuously mocking the silly man,

For spending his unique mental prowess in imitating the ant…


Last night, as I continued oaring,

Gasping for breath, celebrating short intervals, and stretching my hands, every now, and then,

I tried hard not to look at the dark forest,

As if letting out that stare,

From those green grumpy eyes,

To avoid imagining, my boat capsized by a gigantic striped Anaconda,

And hungry Piranhas jostling the water red,

Tearing me into pieces that I doubt could make it to the river-bed,

In the process of gulping down my worst fears,

Slumber gripped me tight,

And, it was only now, hours after Sunrise that I realize,

The pair of oars had slipped from my hands into the water,

While I snored in peace,

Sunk in tranquil waves of my loneliness, and the vicious serenity in that atmosphere…

I’d always dreamt of a moment like this, and no matter how badly I missed the oars,

I knew, my moment was here…

With a stiff glance, I gazed at the seemingly, motionless Sun,

At the rippling surface of the deathly water,

As I waited for another boat, or maybe, another wishfully stranded soul,


I did not want to think of a way out,

I did not want to feel like a man lying on a landmine, waiting for his soul,

To tire out and escape its breathing tangible shell of flesh and blood,

Eventually, torn by a deafening explosion into minute bits,

Here, I was safe and secure,

Secure in the precarious lap of nature,

I felt a peace that though, was strange,

Washed me off my fears…


It is into Mother Nature that we perish one day,

Here, I was waiting for her,

To gulp me down deep within,

Immortalizing my soul, forever…


‘Dream Americano’


It’s only been a year in New Jersey,

And trust me, I already have understood,

There’s life even beyond all the despair in my hood’,

There’s life even after we are nearly kissed by death,

Time heals wounds, no matter how deep, time showers mercy…

Raised up tough in the Guatemalan Western Highlands of Chajul,

I belonged to a courageous family of fifteen,

Each one of them was a fighter in the truest sense,

They fought their way till their last breath,

But, they couldn’t make it past the East Mexican province of San Fernando,

I did have the opportunity to count fourteen heads lying away from their bodies,

Before I believe as I heard, the killers returned to deal them out a mass grave…

Refusing a drug cartel to transport their contraband across the border,

Showing courage to stand firmly against them,

Certainly, came with a price…


Leaving me only with memories of how we made it into Mexico,

Raging the perilous waters of the Usumacinta river,

We could fight away and murder at least a dozen of honor-snatchers and robbers,

We turned tides, escaped the criminal order,

Swam our way across the Mexican border,

We held hand in hand, caressed our sore feet,

Plucked leaves, cooked and ate atop our train,

Together we shielded ourselves against the wind and the rain,

We thought we’d made it, we’d left behind over 2200 miles,

All that we did not know,

For illegal immigrants, transporting illicit merchandise was the last test,

The final barrier on their gateway to paradise,

It was a compulsory part of the show,

In front of those drug cartels and their automatic American weapons,

To have the heart pounding, one had to bow…

Like a pack of wolves hungry, blinded by the smell of the last piece of meat,

With dreams of making it to the American fairyland,

A little over two hundred of us started from Guatemala for the U.S.A,

Glossy streets and glittery jobs, we’d heard of many a fortunes turning gold,

But, as they life has plans chalked out for you,

Even before you know…

I was the lone survivor out of my family of fifteen,

I was among the eight, the only ones that made it alive,

Out of the clutches of poverty,

Out of those gang ridden corn, coffee and coca fields for life,

It’s the price paid every year by millions of Latinos

Poor and helpless, all they know,

This is what it takes to dream ‘Americano’…