Poems by S.L.Peeran

Poems by S.L.Peeran







S.L.Peeran







CHILL PENURY AND POVERTY


Sense of duty wakes up one from slumber.
With drowsy eyes, heavy head, parching tongue;
Tossing in bed gets up, with a murmur,
At dawn to carry out heavy loads of work.

The hut, is bereft of amenities,
Gropes his way in dark for the call of nature.
Dirty, unclean, sans water even for tea.
Unblessed with luxuries of life.

With troubled-heart, severe aches or deep pain.
He has to work, with diseases many.
None to share his woes; to unburden his strain.
He lives with half filled stomach, sans, money.

At his work place with hard labour groans
He weeps in thunder, lightning sans light.
Under cruel fate’s burden he moans
To bear all grudges, sans future bright .

Life is meaningless for the wretched !
They lack sense and strength to fight or revolt
Multitudes suffer with them, parched.
None possesses a will to change or to bolt.

They merely yearn for a cozy bed at night fall,
To sleep peacefully with stomach full,
In hot summer, for cool breeze to blow,
To lessen griefs, seek relief from mosquitoes.

Zestful life eludes them; so also songs and mirth.
The evil eye casts a spell unbearable.
Can they hope to gain strength and girth.
Does the rich see their life miserable ?

The fine silk, refined clothes, jewellery shorn,
Bereft of joy, thrill of beauty of gem.
For all luxuries, they sigh and yearn !
Perfumes, fragrance and scents shun them.

With passion wild they dip in mire
With loose tongue, uttering profanity,
Bad mannered, infamy infused like fire.
They are men of strife and impetuosity.

In the impoverished poor rustic—
What is common in them is not so, in the rich,
Is chill penury a gift to perish ?
Does sorrow hold them in its grip tragic ?

The pangs of sufferings, pathos and grief ;
Disease, filth, and squalor surround them.
Trials and tribulations are long, not brief.
They succumb to die, unheard , unsung.

Is there any redemption for them ?
Can love, care and charity from the rich –
Bring culture, harmony, progress to them ?
To make their world, an abode of peace!






SILENT RUSTICS


The burning hearts, the bleeding hands.
The weary body, the creaking bones
The diseased cancerous lungs
In all seasons, they need to work,
From sunrise to the rising moon.
Only the sounds of the wailing sea,
The cacophony of birds, barking dogs,
Join them in their grievous sighs!
They never look up to the galaxy,
For they are unaware of the waning hopes.
To kindle fire in their dead bosoms.
They are the rustling rustics,
Whose voice is suppressed to become mystics.






BURNT MY CANDLE


I dug and dug in parching deserts
Till I reached the streams below
I filled my bucket of love
With cool waters to quench my beloved’s thirst.
I cultivated dry and parching lands
Irrigated them with my sweat and tears
I picked the choicest fragrant roses
The sweetest fruits for my beloved to taste.
I wove and wove a finest cloth,
With designs and decorations of various hues.
Bedecked with jewels and precious stones
To present as gifts for my beloved to wear.
I yearned and yearned with hopes and longings.
Burnt my candle of life for my beloved’s grace.