Thursday, 11 November 2010

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment: "Drum beating heard in the desert Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown An el..."

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment: "Drum beating heard in the desert Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown An el..."

Wednesday, 10 November 2010


Drum beating heard in the desert

Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes

Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown

An elegant palace emerges in the heart of the forest

Snake blows flute and people dance around it

As the dance become wild the world revolves

At the height of it people bite the snake

Wonder struck I set out in search of the root of happiness

I tread the thorny stony way

I pass by mountains and rivers

There is no water in the oasis

No rose in the bush

No palace in the forest

No drum beating is heard

The snake crawls to my head

But, I don’t have a flute to give it

There are no people to dance around me.

By Ismail Meladi

The Machine

At ten in the morning:

The wheel of the machine

Started moving

With a slightly terrifying noise

The moments started rolling

Along with the wheel,

Most obediently and devoutly;

Did I take the pen in my hand

Oh! I don’t remember that

It was beyond the fog of numbness

Oh! What a surprise,

It is noon already!

Yes, first of all,

The letters in my page,

Then, the ink in my pen,

Following them, my pen,

And at last, my fingers,

Have crawled and crawled

Along with the wheel

And at last, they have corroded

With the iron of the wheel

At five in the evening:

Oh my God, is it evening!

I have already lost my fingers,

So, I looked at my body

Oh heavens! It has happened

Exactly what I expected

Each of my organs

Have been blended with the wheel!

By Ismail Meladi

The burro at Sultanpur

In the busy main street

Of this Sultanpur city

Smeared with the dust of antiquity

Incessant flow of rickshaws

With non-stop rings of bells

Sounding like death knells

Colourful, clamorous and bright,

Still, beautiful is this ugliness of antiquity

There stands a burro exactly in the middle

Of this road surrounded by all these noises

Silent, sharpening and stretching its long big ears

At this time flows and reaches there

Beautiful music, stereo and non-stereo,

Announcement of lottery tickets,

With handsome promises on future,

Slogans, election manifesto, street politics,

Land boundary disputes, secrets of friends,

Luring laughs of ladies flirting with their lovers

But, the burro stands on the middle of the road

In the same state, unmoved and dispassionate

And, many centuries have passed now.

By Ismail Meladi

Indian images

I saw land areas, I saw forest areas

I saw land people in the forests

I saw barbaric people in the land

The ‘worms’ scrawling in the farms

And the life immersed in the dust

Wishes are being sucked in

By the chimneys of factories

Hopes are being driven far away

Along with the herds of cows

Those who toil for greening this land

Return to the palm huts of darkness

In the evening, crossing the desert

And again, the day dawns decrepit

The bullock carts roll panting

On the marooned track of ‘progress’

Loads burden up and bulls bend down

Carts stop at the red light of the rail track

After scaling up the steep road

Rajdhani Express sped away in front of them

On the electric line with AC three-tier coaches

Thousands of temple bells rang together

In the inner heart of the cart driver

Tridents headed towards his stomach.

By Ismail Meladi

Fly Socialism

The greatest socialists

In this country

Are the flies

They don’t discriminate

Between poor or rich

They act without bothering

Whether it is a patient

Or a healthy person

They don’t think about

The colour or race

Whether blacks or whites

They like everybody equally

Be it a north Indian

Or a south Indian

A Punjabi or a Tamil

A Bengali or a Malayali

The flies place their bottoms,

As they like, on everybody’s body

The flies do not find it difficult

To stay anywhere

Whether it is the waste bin

Or palatial mansions

They have no problem

In breathing the free air

Whether it is clean or dirty

They bless the elderly

As they bless the children

Flies are not shy to sing

In front of anybody

If need arises

They dare to venture out

At any time of the night

They don’t care a bit

For people’s positions or respect

Or even the caste differences

They make all of them their preys.

By Ismail Meladi

Nostalgic Memory

The heart of the capital city

Blossoms in December days

The fire in the torch at India Gate

Hesitates to burn brightly

The city that spits smoke

Moves on mechanically as usual

When the ‘Paanwala’ in Parliament street

Enquires about my well being

My lips utter ‘fine’ artificially

Malayalam ‘fine’ and Hindi ‘fine’ are different

My language changes

In front of the journalist in Rafi Marg

There, it is the usual ‘what is news’

When I meet the Malayali in Mayur Vihar

My language becomes more artificial

And more that that, dispassionate

There, the Malabarian and Travancorean

Show off their ego in newspaper language

When the Tamilian in Ramakrishnapuram

Calls me ‘Sir’ my answer becomes heavy

In Karol Bagh I have one language

And in Africa Avenue, another

In the posh Safdarjung Enclave

I have ‘apartment style’ language

When I return to my dwelling place

At the end of the day

And when I dream of loneliness

A small parrot chirps inside

The nest of my heart

I held my ears close

It was uttering something

In a feeble voice

Yes, I have heard this voice somewhere

It was the language of my village, of my household

Of my village people, and of my family

But, it is still not coming out through my lips

It has not been coming out for long

Even when I spend my time ‘freely’ with my friends.

By Ismail Meladi

Facial contradiction



A faceless person,

Who hid my body

Somewhere in the depth

Of this big city,

I am the undisclosed offspring

Of an unknown weak woman,

Who came to this big city

Once upon a time

At some cross roads of history

From a poverty-stricken village

Of Bihar or Orissa,

She had crushed her bones,

Shrunken her skin,

Became herself a worm

And slowly perished

While labouring for palaces

I don’t know her

Nobody knows her

Because, like thousands,

She also had no face

She had pushed her life

With her body only

Yes, body had a value

In any street

Where face had no value

Due to this,

There is no meaning

In searching a face for me

That is why

I don’t have a name

So, you can call me

Any name, as you wish

Thief, robber, killer, scoundrel,



I don’t have a face of my own

Whenever chances came up

I pasted on my face

The undisclosed faces

Of the politician here,

Of the social reformist

Or of any VIP

My most important peculiarity is

That I am not written anywhere

My name cannot be found

In the birth and death register

In the local authority

Because, nobody knows

Where I was born,

When I was born

And to whom I was born

My name cannot be found

In the marriage register too

Because, I don’t need a marriage

To fulfil my sexual urge

Even the police clerk

Writes nothing about me

As he doesn’t know

Who are my parents,

As I have no permanent house,

Or a permanent name

I can speak anything to anybody

Call any names

I can beat anybody

I can kill anybody

Nobody will ask me anything

I can use the road as a toilet

Nobody will protest against it

I can scream loudly in the day time

Nobody will say anything

I don’t have anything of my own

So what?

But, I have the freedom to do anything

I am beyond the time and ages

I am behind the curtain of all images

That is why, I don’t need any protection

Because of all these,

Nothing will happen even if I die


I was not written anywhere.



A person,

Who lives in the biggest

And highest echelons

Of this big city

I get five-digit salary

I move only in cars

I am an executive

With an identity card

Hanging from my neck

When I come back from work

Thinking of the world’s issues

So seriously, heating my brain

I have the comfort of air-conditioning

Clubs, discussions, parties and get-togethers

Are my inevitable routines

I have to keep a lot of manners

And take care of many social values

Hence, I have a lot of facilities

My parents gave me education

In posh English-medium schools

Mother tongue is a shame for me

I, who have all the comforts in life,

Had a revelation one day

Since that day

This thought started haunting me

Though I have everything

I don’t have anything

When I screamed loudly for two days

My freedom took me to hospital

When I used the road for toilet

They chained me


Everything about me

Was written


By Ismail Meladi

Vote Shanties

In the city

Shanties emerge

And disappear

Without any shape

Like cut pieces of clothes

Political lords

Stitch votes

On these cut pieces

They burn

Old pieces

And dish out

New pieces

As the number of

Cut pieces increase

The lords gain

New and new attires.

By Ismail Meladi

The dog in Renigunta

The dog in Renigunta railway station

Runs through the mob

That is making noise

Comes to the platform

And lies down so close to earth

But dispassionate, closing its eyes

The common man in the capital city

Walks with his eyes wide open

As if he has closed his eyes

In the midst of political brouhaha

By Ismail Meladi

The Yield

We put the manure of jealousy

For the best yield

To harvest hundred percent

We plant hatred

To bring out the best bunch

We pluck out the unwanted growth of love

To increase the production capacity

We use hybrid politics

For the yellowness of grains

We mix the ashes of religion

For the fertility of the earth

We import foreign monopoly

For extra high profit

We include anger

For short term gains

We will sacrifice anything

Including us, our generation,

Even the liveliness of this land.

By Ismail Meladi

Global Philosophy

This world is blind

This world is endless

This world is a nonsense

That is danced and revelled

Is this world a pretty poem

Without even a proper

Deployment of meanings

And depth of connotations?

This world is a stupidity of life

Of burdened mind and head

This world is a place

Where the churning out of mind

And the memories become dead

In the spirit poured by over ambitions.

By Ismail Meladi

The Ire

You raped my innocent language cruelly

You battered my sacrosanct culture

You burned my children to death mercilessly

You poisoned my life-saving air

You polluted my mirror-like water

You converted my green into black.

By Ismail Meladi

Prime Minister in a bullock cart

A fully loaded bullock cart,

The eleventh hour of night

And the Prime Minister who sleeps

On the front seat of the carriage

A limping lantern sways beneath

And the disoriented cart reaches a turning

The bull walks according to its impulses

Criss-crossing vehicles speed away

Bang on and knock down the cart

The cart goes right on one banging

And to the left on another banging

It sways and skids but lingers on

At the eleventh hour of night…

By Ismail Meladi

Delhi life

The nostrils

Become chimneys

The lungs of the child

Become hot furnace

And the city turns a hell.

By Ismail Meladi

Death of democracy

Vultures are hovering around

The parliament house

It is long since democracy

Has breathed its last

Authorities have issued orders

To import all the perfumes

To get away from the stench

That is emanated due to decay

For that, all the laws are amended

Including liberalization and globalisation

Watching all these, there sits somebody

On the courtyard of the parliament house

His head is lowered and body is blackened

It was our Gandhiji.

By Ismail Meladi

Vulture and I

The vulture strikes on dead bodies

And I strike on life

The vulture eats the unknown

And I eat my kin

The vulture flies over

Around death

I fly around and across


By Ismail Meladi

To River Yamuna

Oh! Yamuna!

Are you bowing

To accept

The garland of death?

Is the city of Mayan

On your banks

Transforming into

The city of Yaman?

Are you embracing

All the thoughts

Getting decayed

Throughout the city?

Are all paths

Being filled with

Severely hurt


Are pellets

Of political shrapnel

Being piled up

In the alleys?

Is nothing found

Other than truth

To be sacrificed

On the altar?

Oh! Yamuna!

Are you becoming


Even in the day?

Where is light?

Is it buried

In deep mud

In the gorge?

Are you consuming

The whole smoke

Of the sins that

Emanate from the city?

By Ismail Meladi


Yamuna: The city of Delhi is situated on the banks of river Yamuna.

Mayan: According to the Hindu mythology, the city of Delhi was created by the Sculptor Mayan.

Yaman: According to the Hindu mythology, Yaman is the lord of death.

The Signature

Your signature

Decides the fate

Of my life

Your signature

Builds compound wall

To my freedom

Your signature

Reins in

My hopes

Your signature

Controls the growth

Of my children

Your signature

Takes away the smell

Of my soil

Your signature

Prolongs the life

Of my illness

Your signature

Steals the honey

Of my forest

Your signature

Dims the shining

Of my coin

Your signature

Decides the right

Over my fingers

Your signature

Creates another owner

To all my organs

Your signature

Demands rent

Even for my life


I have decided

To obliterate your signature.

By Ismail Meladi

The Soil

This soil

Yearned solidly

For my first cry

I grew up

Consuming the smell

Of this soil

This soil

Had become the cake

In the toy cup of my childhood

This soil

The virgin who blossomed

With the touch of my feet

The plant of my hope

Had grown on her

Chubby cheek

This soil

Was soaked

With my sweat

This soil

Is not alien to me

It is my aim and reality.

By Ismail Meladi


I lived in the middle of books

Still I became lazy

I lived on the banks of the rice field

Still I became hungry

There were textile mills in my state

Still I became naked

There were beauty parlours in my town

Still I became ugly

There were wells in all houses around me

Still I became thirsty

There were police in my country

Still I was pained

Because there was paper in this world

I did not commit suicide.

By Ismail Meladi

Feminine grief

Boiled pain is there

To chew in

Sour juice

Of poverty is there

To drink in

Dead dreams are there

To caress

Blanket of fear

Is there to sleep in

Kids of hope

Are not there

To sing lullaby

First sight

Of husband

Is not there

To get up from sleep

No truth, no justice

No righteousness, No coins

To dress up

Not even the Sindoor

Of tomorrow

To spill on the hairline

Nobody is there,

Not a Banyan tree

Or even a sheet

To give shade

No sandal

To tread the path

Of hot sunny days

No green leaves

No drinking water

To quench the heat.

By Ismail Meladi

Sindoor: A red powder used by Indian women to spill on their hairline, which means that they are married.

Melted thoughts

Thoughts flow wide open
Spread and merge with fire
All the miseries ooze out
Towards the fire as petrol
All commodities and the hopes
And the mind too catch fire
Cracks appear on chairs
Whips lash out heavily
Screams evaporate quickly
Feminine youthfulness
Becomes disastrous
Blood spreads on coins
Shame and pride melt in tar
By Ismail Meladi

The Halt

She said:

I am the sigh

That has fallen apart

Halfway through

While it was rising up

I am the feeling

That was suppressed

Before being expressed

I am the opinion

That was chopped away

Before being voiced

I am the desires

That never blossomed

Out of the heart

I am the thoughts

That are confined

To the brain

I am the attitude

That cracked up

Hitting the walls

I am the worries

That end up burning

Inside the heart

I am the sorrows

That evaporated

Through tears

I am the dreams

That were collapsed

Without being built up

I am the anxiety

That was caved in

Before being ascended

By Ismail Meladi


Oh! Delhi,

You are the mother of cities

In your adolescence

You were Indraprastha

In the youth

You became Shajahanabad

And later you became Delhi

You are the Panchali

Who, for decades,

Is being stripped

By the political lords

You live on the banks of Yamuna

Still, no flutist

Is coming to your rescue

You are the Sita

Who braves the fire

To prove your innocence

Rama sends you

To the concrete jungle

Again and again

Not an inch of earth

Is available here

For you to split

And perish yourself

Oh! Delhi,

Ghalib wanders

In your alleys

Singing his Ghazals

Even today

Now, the river Yamuna

Flows Through your chest

Like a flimsy wound

Where are your children?

Don’t they have a place

Even in this concrete jungle?

By Ismail Meladi

Does rain possess a mind?

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it downpour

Like a torrential lashing

Into the miseries of the poor

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it drizzle like

Kindness again and again

Into the affluence of the rich

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it play havoc

Always in some regions

As floods and landslides

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it hesitate to come

Sometimes, becomes incessant

Another time, breaks and clears

Does rain possess a mind?

Or else, why does it waffle indefinitely

To pour down in some places

And makes the land a rain bird.

By Ismail Meladi

The Touch

When the belly of the child

On the mother’s lap

Burns with hunger

Laments the breast dried of milk

This is a touch of sorrow

When the mother’s body

Decays on the roadside

A hand caresses the head

Of the tear-exhausted kid

This is a touch of kindness

When the Teacher pats the back

Of the student at the end of a session

Of coughing letters, his throat dries up,

There oozes out a drop of tear in his eyes

This is a touch of affection

When the man touches the heap

Of ashes of his burnt up house

His hands stumble upon the dream

And its colour darkens as he looks on

This is a touch of helplessness

When the husband martyrs

Shedding blood in the battlefield

The grief of the wife who faces the tragedy

Mellows out at the chest of her mother

This is a touch of solace

When his fingers fondle

Through her long hairs

“Today” dies out in the head

Where sense has been dried up

This is a touch of love

When I touch you with my mind

Sitting far away from you

I am touching you

Without touching you

This is a touch of soul.

By Ismail Meladi

The Humble Word

The word,
shown the door
with contempt everyday,
will be ready
waiting at the door
the next day,
humble as usual;
The word,
beaten up and crushed
will repeat the mischief
The word,
that toils and soils
the whole day,
is all set the next day
even after being
washed and squeezed
to the core.

By Ismail Meladi

Satellite Age

The umbilical cord of relations
grows not from land to land;
Not even a bridge is made
as light as a thread
from hearts to hearts;
Relations just happen
sure, through satellites;
As and when pressed
those remote controls
of profit motives
relations lose direction;
The short-lived relations
die down without the warmth
of thoughts and lines straight;
Shaken are the cold hands
where nerves had been
facing untimely deaths.

By Ismail Meladi

The Turbulent Path

Let me also seek

A path where

Chariots have not been rolled on

Bones have not been crushed on

Let me also see

Drops of water

On food plates

Not discoloured

Let me also wish

To hate

The blood spreading

On the wheat grains

Let me also keep

Praying to have

The water in the stream

Spotless forever

Let me also, finally,

Keep away from

Sipping the dirty water

Of this madness

Let me also set out

To throw

The stones

On this fraud path

By Ismail Meladi

Loss and Gain

Life groans like a patient

Afflicted with rheumatism

The needle of the

Clock is on fire

I get multiple faces

Oh! The flautist,

Play the music of


The dancer has lost

Her anklets,

The watchman

His stick,

The mother

Her mind,

The father

His thoughts,

The children

Their dreams,

Some people

Their shelter,

Few others

Their fear,

A lot many

Their courage,

The words

Their meaning

And sharpness;

The horrendous

Rolling of machines

Has stolen

The hearing power

Of the rivers,

And the smokes

Their vision;

The fungus-smothered

Spectacles change colours

Snails face extinction

Pens start embarking

On special carriages

Brains repose on easy chairs

As the ink and the paper

Blame each other

The gold casts

a sarcastic smile

The sugar overthrows

The salt in tears.

By Ismail Meladi

Don’t be born my child…

Don’t be born my child,

Know, with what

The face of the earth

Is waiting for you

No light would be spread,

No smile would be unfurled,

Listen for a time when you feel

The sound of explosion as music

Here would not be calm and quiet

Unrest would rule the roost

Remember, you will have to learn

The lessons of unexpectedness

Ensure you will not burn even in fire

Explosions could occur any time

You will have to do a tight ropewalk

Over the bridge of thread

Sun will not rise up,

Men will not wake up

First sight each morning

Would be of dead bodies

Stoves will not be lit up

Bellies will not be filled up

Still, the air will be engulfed

With black smoke, don’t suffocate

Man and man will not

Get along with each other,

Blood will flow like rivers,

Save yourself from drowning

No dolls or toys to play

You will have to put up

Your life amongst

The guns and bombs

You will not find any faces,

Expect only masks

Everybody will keep knives

Watch out for yourself

No tears or sympathies left

The beauty of the earth

Will become barren

Try not to be sad

No kindness in the hearts

Not a drop of water will be left

Even in the womb of the sea of love

Don’t be desperate

There is not a better place for you

Than the womb of your mother

You know my child,

You know…

Don’t be born my child,

Know, with what

The face of the earth

Is waiting for you.

By Ismail Meladi

Blood Episode

You may wash your face

With my blood

At least thus,

Let your mask

Which is stuck for long,

Break away

You may drink

My whole blood

At least thus,

Let your inner heart,

Which is dirty with stains,

Be washed clean

My blood may not be enough

To wash all your hands

And clean all your thoughts

Still, take this blood blithely

Shed my blood ruthlessly

If you need it to cool your

Boiling eyes or to make it up

At least thus,

Let the filthy cloud, formed

And getting debased in your eyes,

Be moved away.

By Ismail Meladi

Green Dream

Oh my small baby that sleeps

Enjoying the warmth of my chest

You too see the tree that I saw

You too see the flowery branches,

The spring that blooms the flowers,

The shades and the contentment

But, see not the trees burning

Oh dear, see the green leaves

And the dews that cool them

See the shyness of the grass tip

That blossoms self-immersed

But, see not the leaves charring

Oh my kid, see the land

See the moon grass on it

And the lotus bloomed in mud

That mirrors its face on moon

The embarrassment on its face

See them all eyes wide open

See not the barrenness spreading

Oh my young child, walk further

Listen to pure charming music

Surprise unfurls on the creepers

That crawled up on the fence

See the first rays of sun caress

The reed bushes after reaching

Like the snakes move around

In the reed bushes that became

A worship place for the villagers

Where the ancient hymns rise

Awake from the nap the reeds

Will hum the morning rhythm

Lend ears to this, not explosions

Take a stroll or two across the fields

The stems of paddy plants

Will play melodies for you

Flowery plants on the shores

Will call you with their hands

Rhythmically and the streams

Will sing sweet tunes for that

Smell not the discharging blood

With a sea of tears and folded hands

I beg your pardon my little child

Sitting even in this concrete jungle

I whisper in your ears green garden

At least, let a green dream unfold

In your deep and comfortable sleep

Let you not be hurt at least inside.

By Ismail Meladi

Precarious Thoughts

My soul trims down and

Becomes a single thread

By pecking and plucking

Words separate the tangles

On the much sharpened edge

Between meaning and inanity

Between sense and inner sense

At precarious moments

Swings and sways the thoughts

If that peels off and drops down

The fall will shake up this universe

Thoughts drenched in the downpour

On earth have been swollen and heavy

An oil lamp on the veranda of the soul

And the oil that is being burnt up in it

Invigorate and enliven the flames

On the stage that is dimmed up with

Flimsy flames and cold breeze.

By Ismail Meladi


Split the moment into hundred

And take one among them

Build a bridge across the life,

Slimmer than the hair

That is divided into hundred

Place a needle on top of it,

Of coincidence, unexpectedness,

Of impuissance, selfishness, or

Of anything…

And now,

The fate would be arriving

As an uninvited guest

It would perform a dance

On the edge of the needle

Not just a dance,

A dance of devastation,

And the destruction

Would be occurring

Underneath the bridge

It will become topsy-turvy

The least expected would be

A huge displacement of things.

By Ismail Meladi

Mutilated word

Life is a set of

Mutilated words

The words of life

That have lost order

Needs a symphony

Of solace on flute

To weld them up

In the fire of love

But, here, they are so disfigured

That it is difficult to distinguish

Between vowels and consonants

The words have lost

Their lines and curves

But, lots of dots remain

And the dots grow bigger and bigger

And metamorphose into

Huge circles and deep gorges

Now everything is confined

In a ‘O’ circle

But, ‘O’ was not the first letter born

The letters that did not melt in fire

Have corroded in the soil

By Ismail Meladi

The Fire of Pen

An ember erupts

In the eyes of the pen

That pens the fate of

The universe

The ember flames

From a hot inspiration

Of the wind’s

Blowing awareness

Aghast was the fingertip

That flaunted, lived

And ordered as the judge

Of the universe

The fingertip got roasted

And shivered in the fire

Of the pen’s wrath,

Trembled all inside

There grabs the pen

A sword to chop, slice

And dump the fingertip

And jumps up hysterically

Stretch and tighten

The nerves of the pen

Bulge out the eyes

Its ire becomes lava

The pen sets out on war

Its throat spits words

That ignites more

Like a rain of fire

It’s only astonishment

In each and every sound

That is heard around

And each sight that is seen

There turns around the pen

That was the sharp weapon

All the way through; against,

With the same wrath of fire

Recalls the fingertip

All those past moments

The dance of the pen

Performed over its spin

And the pen was thrust

A good step forward

While the body receded

Seven steps backward

Remembers the fingertip

How the colour of letters

Faded and died down

Only on the papers

It’s now a disturbing memory

That the pen was moved on

And made to dance unending,

Uncaring of its body and soul

I’m ready to melt myself

In the heat of the pen

That can’t be drenched,

Also ready to shed my body

I will resurrect enkindling

A new light deep inside me

Let it brighten up the

Darkest of its corners

By Ismail Meladi


There flows

A stream

Between the

Parliament House and

The Rashtrapathi Bhawan,

Not at all deep,

Still so long,

But too narrow,


None dares

To cross it,


Along its banks

Switched on

The Neon bulbs

The stream

Without waves

Creates roars

Of waves

In the minds

Of the donkeys

The stream stretches

Its length day by day,

Splits Mother’s breast,

Emerge many branches,

Lions roar,

In its high pitch

Faint the fellow humans

In front and rear,

Tighten the twines,

And at the end

Splits the heads

Of the donkeys

Dries up the earth

Finding no way to flow,

Steers the stream

Towards the sky.

By Ismail Meladi