Source: Gerd Altmann from Pixabay 

every minute
256 hearts are born
to do something,
for this world
years later,
when they do try
to do something,
for this world
it collapses,
under the weight of
hymns with only noise
and no meanings
that shatters like glass
if and when
touched upon with doubt.
when learnt
were rejoiced
for they,
became the window
to soul,
to emotions,
to everything,
and anything.

you and me
when learnt words,
wrote poems
for life
for love
for everything
and anything
but now
we live in
pseudo world
where anything to do
with honesty, good values
collapses, as soon as it builds.
I am not here to paint
your world with only dark hues
but to be a mirror,
or rather
the puddle on the road
which also has that little rainbow
of hope
but still shows
the world
it's image
where anything to do
with sanity
here poems
written by youth
about all the big things,
about revolutions,
liberty and fraternity,
and what remains
are ashes
of dreams
and aspirations
and all those poems
whose words then
breakdown into
which then
are free to form
the word

I read somewhere
"your age is just the number
of times you've been around the sun"
if so,
then the whole timeline
revolves around you
you decide
a good time and a bad one
you decide
the earth's age
and your heart
is the centre
it's just a matter of perceptions
yesterday a caterpillar near my window
was complaining about it's last day
and how the next day
he won't see the world
I didn't really have the
heart to tell him that the next day
you would have a new life
full of colours,
his grief was
overwhelming my hope.
ur grief always does this
overwhelms the hope,
inside us
you and me.
centripetal force
as physics says
is necessary to keep
an object moving in a curved path
and maybe we all
do follow the same force
our actions
thoughts and notions
keeps us
you and me
on what is to be done
bound like a circling
stone attached to thread
if so, then
what if the
thread snaps?
the stone goes moping around
rushed actions
messy thoughts
but also it is free
freedom comes with a
so does understanding
and so does many other things

how many wars
until we understand that?
a few thousand more?

how many stars are
needed to lighten the world?
I think one smile
would be enough

how many rainbows,
untill we don't need to fear
the blacks and whites of society?
I think we are
just one painting away

how many words
until our elders understand
what is it to deal with anxiety?
maybe just one
none, hope

how many words
until we don't fear
the complex terms to
confuse us more
where misogyny is not
confused with feminism
and respect is synonymous
to equality?
maybe just one more poem.
but here
we are in the cities of
where anything to do
with sanity
where poems
written by youth
about all the big things
and even small things
collapses under the
abstract weight of

this poem
if read
with feigned interest
will turn you into
an atheist
if read with contempt
will turn you into
a rebel
if, with faith,
or even belief
you'll become a
revolution, almost.
just maybe
our revolution
and you
and me
and revelations,
needs chanting
and propagation,
like mantras,
this needs to be
our religion
constant chanting
of dark metaphors
silly similes
strong ironies
and intended pins
witty oxymorons
and deliberated epithets,
maybe then,
it won't
just maybe,
and then
every minute
256 new hearts
will be free from
and their hands
will again
write poems
which will bring changes
while ours,
yours and mine
just try to survive
amidst all the constant chanting
which somewhere become screams,
which then pave
wave for those new hearts
to build something after the ruins
until then
these are the cities
we live in,
where art
done by us
you and me
spells and smells
collapses. and smells

.    .    .