The migrants

A poet died today,

He was from the same city
to which I belong.

He created his place
in this new world.

Loved by all.
Remembered by few.
He was a migrant to this city
just like me and many others.

The migrants never really forget
their homeland.

They live,
in their homeland
and the new land where they work,
simultaneously.

The migrants
they miss their languages.
the languages less spoken
but sweeter than the one they use at work.

Is it just nostalgia?

Maybe the birthplace
has something to do with our psyche.

The lullabies which were sung
to us when we were kids,
gets entrenched in us.

We leave places, cities and towns.
but they never leave us.

They remain in our sub-conscious
hidden from everyone.

and they
come back smiling when we write.

~ by Md. Shahid Kamal Ansari 

oxymoron

Sense is captive,
Non sense is on centre stage.

Reality is on back burner,
And symbols are sitting on hot seat.

Reason is laughing,
Logic has failed,

Substance is fighting for its existence,
Persistence is perspiring,

Hard work is getting hard,
Resistance has softened.

Disaster is waiting on the gate,
Idiots are holding garlands.

Soon, God will be beaten.

Preacher is the new God.
He reads scriptures like a song,
He sings it like a lullaby and makes
People captive.

Power is helpless,
Happiness is unhappy,

Life is rusty,
Every crow is thirsty.

Blood is boiling,
Milk is not.

People drink blood,
Throw milk on stones,

Milk is not milky,
Stars are milky.

People are moron,
Life is an oxymoron.