The Plot thickens to ripen in time
Leaving no scars of this last crimson sunlight
Sheepishly he walk into the middle of the road
To get hit by a fast moving anonymous truck
To be a part of the part which is true nature
There are lights like the butt of the cigarette
These colors form the part of the staircase, reaching somewhere closer to heaven not in my mind . In your mind
There is wanted error in the system
And all which Is left is the end of the world
Swallow all up In one go. Towards infinity rising slowly
And rising still…
There is this way which things will go, before they start afresh
And all of us are closer to the things which we stand united for
To create something new , something which makes us masters of ourselves.
There is a smaller legend associated with the death of god
It seems that we stopped the embrace to ourselves
And stop singing those little pauses which happen to us all the time
The greatest of the prophets walks still now.
Till now he is the lord of the matted hair
Not removed his anger and the dance of delusion
Of which we all sit in amazement and watch
Before all of us becomes all of none.
That which I speak can never be closer to what I never felt
There is this which flows through me, there is this itch which has never left me.
And which has all of “I” has become of I.
Leave it in peace, there is no love here.
Only the power of I filling it up
There is this pass which must be cleared
There is this love of the self which must be removed
The Buddha walks alone in the garden
Listening to his murderers speak in truth
There is no love for the Buddha , there is only knowledge of him
There is no Buddha, Kill Buddha. Kill Him now
Some speak of Sabbath as a bad element to society
Of the laziness and drone it fills us with
And with that awful sense of murder which comes is not because of the music,
And some times the word spoken is not an echo but a peeling of the soul. This is the most destructive power.
Inside or outside, You and I are burning up into this lie. Into this word.
Time to rest. Time to ripen the wine.
Time to spend in aloofness of this crime.
(A long time back write. somehow it seems to befit the crime just this moment)