Poems by M. A. Rathore

Poems by M. A. Rathore



Truth without pleasure is not a truth;
It is only a plane truth which has no life;
No essence of any thought
But a sour fact which makes you sad
Until it is laced with divine pleasure.

You are conscientious; all awakened
And dancing to the tune of eternity,
As soon as you have got the key to success;
And are in the possession of divine truth
Which has disclosed the secret of life.

Truth lies inside you when you accept it;
When you look at your self
With the eyes of truth and pleasure
You have paved the way to truth,
For the truth claims the breath of life.

Unpleasant truth is a kind of weapon
Those who use it is said to be a violent;
Its authentication is suspected
If it is not coming directly
From the innocent and truthful source.



Words are just a betrayal;
Whenever I try to write something
It seems they are true and appropriate
But the next time it becomes futile
And they lose their lusture.

Words are very clever;
Whenever I try to say something
They become false
As if they were not familiar with me
And I remain speechless.

Words are a kind of prayer;
As I invoke God
They seem unnecessary repetition
From the bells of some temple
While the absolute God sits beside me.

Words are just words of a poet,
Written in the far-fetched images;
Felt in the spontaneous flow;
Bundle of pseudo metaphors;
Trying to pave the way to meditation.



Words reveal what lies behind them,
What they want to say;
They expose the world which is made
On the foundation of words
As a beloved yeilds all to her lover.

Silence keeps the secret in her bosom,
What lies inside remains hidden;
She never discloses the essence
Which is the foundation of meditation
As a Yogi becomes silent after being enlightened.

Words resound the shallowness within,
They can float on the surface;
They can be caught easily like a fish
By throwing a net of verbosity
While silence has its root in the depth.

Silence can never be caught
With any of the ways one can apply;
She is fostered deeper inside,
Lurking behind the basic source of knowledge;
Words fail when silence speaks.



Each man is a kind of mirror,
In it we merely look at our own face;
Whatever matter the mirror is made of,
We just see the same face each time;
Our own replica reflects our own image.

If the man is sad he will remain unhappy
Even if he is sent to a palace;
A happy man can create happiness
If he is sent from a palace to a thatched hut;
For he peeps his own nature through the mirror.

The mirror never changes its mind
And it cannot be bribed;
It only reflects the face of its beholder
Even if he is rich or poor
It expresses the real face of man.

If a man changes his friends;
Remarries leaving his beloved wife;
If he forsakes his own lovely home,
Converting his traditional occupation
His disposition remains the same.


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