Only ten percent of our life and time is ours

We are absorbed in people we love or hate

We are possessed by passions

Of love and jealousy.

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, a renowned poet and writer from Chandigarh, India, shares his mystic poems

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, based in Chandigarh, is an Indian poet and scholar credited with 170 plus books of English literature, philosophy and spirituality. He won great Serbian Award Charter of Morava and his name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He was honored with Seneca Award LAUDIS CHARTA by Academy of Arts & Philosophical Sciences, Bari, Italy 2024. He is Founder President of the International Academy of Ethics and conferred Doctor of Philosophy (Honoris Causa) by University of Engineering & Management, (UEM).

THE FESTIVAL OF FIRE

Only ten percent of our life and time is ours

We are absorbed in people we love or hate

We are possessed by passions

Of love and jealousy

Which we often mistake

As a sign of competitive therapy

Necessary for a break.

Memories are the real rulers of men,

All our actions build

Pyramids of memories

Which are home to our best thoughts

We are never alone

Even in our utter loneliness

We are remembering someone.

Whose company we cherish.

Desires are maids in multicoloured dresses

Come to the festival of fire

And we can see the ramp show

And the cat walk

In their best dress and undress

Like orchestra dancers,

They are only earning a living

Not always vile, only drugged with hope.

What is bad if in situations beyond repair

Rather than take to the ceiling fan

We rest our head

In the lap of desires

Sweet passions,

Mingled with hope

And construct a dome of pressure

In the dark ranges of the mind?

It is not bad faith,

To choose to live on some how

If not in bricks, on their shadows

This is what hopes, in essence, are.

Isn’t it better to turn a desire,

Rather than go to a riverside

And tempt its waves to swallow you down?

***

OF GEMS AND STRATEGEMS

There are hundreds of pearls

Lying dormant and unknown

In the vaults of nature

Some whom waves of time tumble up

Come into public view

And are regarded as precious

Real gems remain busy with their own

Creative Muse and have no time

To play to the gallery

The cheering crowds

Who shower love on people

Are not necessarily unfooled.

Because men sometimes create waves

To tumble their destinies up

They are no gems, but strategems

True geniuses work underground

And men discover their greatness

From their works

Much after they have left

Uncared for and unrecognized

Some badly contested too

While the world which believes in

The make believe, laureates only people

Who can manage the show

Smart minds who can advertise

Themselves and their wares,

Good or not good does not matter.

_________________ 

Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"