Sieving the Sounds


sieving the sounds

Neck deep in heavy, enchanted sleep was I,
skimming on silver tides that dreams found.
A pleasant silence then compelled me,
to aim my ears on the sounds around.

Wish we could have lived in our dreams,
where no vicissitudes of fate can touch us.
The sounds I heard were auditory delicacies –
collectively, the best possible mental stimulus.

I could hear a fragrant breeze blow past,
carrying slyly stolen memories of bygone years.
I could hear the trees stealthily whisper,
and birds responding with ebullient cheers.

I could hear a serpentine stream of water,
meander its way across silky sands.
I could hear the crevices of Earth open,
to nourish all life with benevolent hands.

I could hear delighted children laugh and giggle,
and their playful fantasies happily fulfilled.
I could hear the chorus of a thousand prayers,
thanking heaven’s stones for what they milled.

I could hear the dogs of war snoring,
waiting for peace to break its charm.
But, peace, instead was singing hymns aloud,
ensuring its children stay away from harm.

And then, fittingly, but cruelly I awoke,
only to experience a sinister shock so late.
The vile ironies of fate had consumed me,
using this dreamy sleep as a shrewd bait.

A queer deja vu! And a silence again…
only this time it was chilling to the core.
My ears then burst in crucifying agony,
as the sounds returned to haunt me once more.

I could hear the cannons boldly boom,
paving the way to create new graveyards.
I could hear stilettos chop up bare necks,
and chests being ripped by swords and shards.

I could hear the bloody clang of heavy metals,
and weapons forged with frightening expertise.
I could hear rumbles of an impending catastrophe,
as it awoke from a siesta deep within the seas.

I could hear vultures screeching in the skies,
waiting to sink their teeth into a lifetime’s feast.
I could hear a great havoc muscle out peace,
like some monstrous, unchained, fiendish beast.

I could hear wails of orphaned children –
their parents lost to the juggernaut of strife.
I could hear the empty screams of widows,
struggling to find purpose in a traumatised life.

Dreams are where a wish and a fear meet,
and a battle ensues for cerebral supremacy.
Which side wins, alas! is an oystered mystery,
which leaves us all at night-time’s mercy.

Why such a play of disjoint acoustics exists,
when the actors remain one and the same?
Is it that in our celebrated consciousness,
we kill hopes and make dreams lame?

Don’t we need a reoriented frequency,
on which to lead our nomadic lives upon?
Shouldn’t the sweet sounds of our dreams persist,
when we open our eyes at the break of dawn?


NISHANK MEHTA  |  17.04.2008

The Price They Paid


the price they paid

This is the story of a village –
and its happy, unassuming townsfolk.
Bathed in nature’s choicest bestowing,
They diligently worked up their yoke.

They lived as one large family,
and battled difficulties in consort.
They loved love and hated hate,
and fight was an unused resort.

They lived simply, but with utmost joy,
No envy, no suspicions in their breasts.
Evil was vestigial in their lexicon,
And they joyously reaped their ripe harvests.

When rain poured, they danced with gusto,
When the sun shone, they basked without a worry.
For them, life was a comfortable breeze,
and not a hot oven that baked in a hurry.

Their spotless minds neither knew nor cared,
about the chaotic lives of their urban counterparts.
All they were concerned with was their paradise,
And, they cherished its splendor in their spacious hearts.

But then…its a cruel, cruel world,
And gaiety is almost a punishable crime.
And so swooped in the vultures from cities,
To inject a twist in our rhyme.

The bulls had roared, and moolah had soared,
and the business guns had gone kaboom!
Not satiated with cementing the cities,
They flocked to this village to seal its doom.

Verbal poisons were poured in those innocent ears,
And money was exchanged between filthy hands.
Where once the cuckoos sang with panache,
the vile sounds of machines echoed in those lands.

Dreams were crushed and families were torn apart,
as the noxious fumes of over-ambition seeped in.
And as they were inhaled, good sense was lost,
and greed registered an unfortunate win.

Hope changed into despair, as it always does,
And peace was shattered by dirty dog-fights.
And even as the ailing village bled out woes,
The infiltrators sucked gold with all their mights.

The mountains were scarred, the rivers turned black,
As acres of forests were mercilessly axed down.
Once they were the villager’s sacred totems,
But, now they were just causes of a corporate’s frown.

And, when all money was minted from the place,
The vultures abandoned the fleshless carcasses.
The offended lands now refused to yield,
Either cash crops or lush green grasses.

So it was…men were bartered for money,
and nature ignored with blasphemous ruthlessness.
And, the peace of a prosperous, unassuming village,
was thrown into gaping chasms of wilderness.


NISHANK MEHTA  |  07.02.2008

A Lesson to Leeches


lesson to leeches

The leeches are coming…
Hungry for blood, feasting on despair.
Shunting time on their way,
destroying helpless lives beyond repair.

The leeches are coming…
Shrewdly forging deals of death.
Delivering oblivion to those who fight,
hell resounding in every breath.

The leeches are coming…
To break our gilded cages.
To earn us a solemn right to die,
something denied to us for ages.

The leeches are coming…
Feeding on our own carcasses.
Kindled by the very fire,
ignited by our brainless masses.

The leeches are coming…
Their torsos merging with their shadows.
Sensing frustration and desperation,
enticed by the smell of our sorrows.

The leeches are coming…
Their faces vindictive with malice.
Numbering our days of survival,
and the fate of the world in a trice.


Let the leeches come…
for all that they are worth.
We will fight back and save
the destiny of our dear earth.

Let the leeches come…
and show us all that they have got.
We will show them the way to hell,
where peacefully may they rot.

Let the leeches come…
and face the magic of our visions.
Free from the ancient bonds,
we will unite the needless divisions.

Let the leeches come…
flying with all their might.
Our wings of fire will burn
the wretched creatures in their flight.

Let the leeches come…
to eliminate our very existence.
We are now beyond the strangling ties
and spirited in our resistance.

Let the leeches come…
For years have we let them haggle.
Now the dreamt moment is at hand –
A silent uproar and a merciless strangle.


NISHANK MEHTA  |  16.11.2007

War and Peace

war and peace

Streams of blood will flow…
The tortured flesh will squeal out woe.
The accursed reveille will rage a storm,
which will embrace every living form.

No man or mortal shall survive the ‘sacrifice’…
Hell is for sale, gentlemen…name your price.
The chilling shrieks of children will resonate
over the battlefield – cold and desolate.

The trenches dug deep within our chest
Will put lives of many unnamed to rest.
The sun that set may never rise again
As the tearful sky pours down endless rain.

Bodies strewn under the lifeless mist…
Vultures fly down for a lifetime’s feast.
We crave only for flesh and bone…
Men of hate have hearts of stone.

Umpteen olive branches we may give,
But many must die, so that some may live.
All may be fair in war, indeed…
But is war fair? O butchers! Pay heed…


Unless, over madness, better judgement prevails,
And deaf ears hear those desperate wails.
Seek the victory that needs to be sought,
Cease the war that was never meant to be fought.

Opportunity was never known to knock twice,
and not even once where it senses vice.
Absence of war is not always peace –
Harmony and unity are what we wish.

Let the smiles again light up their face,
And the grieving hearts find solace
For never again will those guns breath fire…
Everlasting peace is all we desire.

Let nations wash their bloodied hands
and seek peace over their stolen lands.
Bury the ghosts that shout for battle…
The time has come to prove our mettle.

The world needs healing; all must rise
Lest doom dawns before our helpless eyes.
Let tomorrow mark the arrival of perennial peace
Grab your chance – perform the curing kiss!


NISHANK MEHTA  |  01.09.2007