Poems by M. A. Rathore
The person who makes himself busy
In learning new thoughts is active and live;
Like a kitten he is attached every time
With some and the other activities.
What goes on in his life depends on
What measures he adopts
To foster his new thoughts and ideas
Which will change him altogether.
New thoughts depend on new dreams;
And new dreams have mental aestheticism;
Developed as the spiritual assets
For the poet and the composer of life.
What makes his thoughts new?
What makes him excellent and great?
None else but the literature he reads
As the powerful tonic for new thoughts.
O Death, Thou shalt not
Break my pride!
As thou art fame to do
With thy icy hands
As I am living here
With all my awakened soul
Being not connected
To the worldly greed
I have my feet
Measured into three steps
For my celestial grave
To whom shalt thou
Mitigate even an inch?
The space where my tombstone
Wilt be eracted with pride
Though all thy world
Whose senses work under limit
Of time and space
Feels jealous of my lot
O Death, Thou shalt greet me
As a military troop to their leader
Laughing under suppressed voice
At my crowded depature.
Love is a deep eye
Opening gate of heart for
Cleansing all the dirt
Making veins clearly present
Two divine souls meet
On spreading sheet of petals
For their honeymoon
Their celestial joints
Touching with the heart not mind
Mature for union