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Nooruddeen Mathilakathveetil Poems
Smudge Of Blood
Here, this smudge of blood, Of a tender boy of eleven, Soaked thru the tarmac, Yet to be dried, still wet and warm!
Oh! My river My cute river Beauteous you are In the morn, in the gloaming
Convinced Me She Is….
Is she an angel? I asked the stars They were dubious
Slouching beside my parents A shabby shriveled bloke Wrapped himself in a rug worn Laden with a bulky bag torn
Hazy and misty sky turns (into) bright Sun shines faintly in the rain ere long Lovely girl’s lovely eyes Twinkle with amazement
The Bird Watcher (Part 1)
I plod through the leafy woods The shadowy, coolly rain forest at the dale Harkening the spellbinding tunes of trills Watching the vividly coloured pretty fowls
The Bird Watcher (Part 2)
After a day long traverse far and wide In quest of the secrecy of my pretty aves I back in the tree house in the sanctuary for the night While they are ensconced in the high tree fastness for the night
Made For Each Other
I remember the first day I met you, I caught a glimpse of your face far in the crowd, Glowing in the diffused golden twilight, I strode in the seething mass to be near you.
Old age knocked on my door and enjoined ‘Over, your stint in the desert’ Obeyed, though my reveries remain unfulfilled Oddments of my odds and sods are wrapped up to carry along
Dragging me these old pictures In to my by gone days They are decayed in course of time, though The pictures have a lot to speak
Trills of the birds Arouse him up in the morn. The feeling of lethargy Restrains him from getting up of his comfort
Smudge Of Blood
Here, this smudge of blood,
Of a tender boy of eleven,
Soaked thru the tarmac,
Yet to be dried, still wet and warm!
An innocent young lad,
Fades-in my mind,
Your bag! Your bag!
Picking up a shopping bag,
Shouting and chasing the biker,
Who slings the bag into the crowd,
And cruises at a high speed.
Shouting repeatedly in vain,
Albeit he ran a bit far away from the crowd,
Your Bag! Your Bag!
Oh! Sudden, the shopping bag explodes
Shredding in to pieces, the poor boy.
Scattering around his fresh flesh ...