First song is fear


Nights were frightening, most of them were,
murkiness crawling in every thoughts,
everything being shadow of itself,
She seeing me,
two eyes seeing two eyes, connected by nothing but a fearful gaze,
one identifying another, both forlorn.
She thought through me, and beheld fear.

The climactic lamp post on street, yonder
seldom faces like her’s gazing at more me’s,
glossed over on days,
wake up from slumber and
have been the resting harbor for eyes, I shut tight, fastening myself
from the fear creeping in.
A look again, the fear is truest.
There I see, amidst the sea of darkness,
a face, void of emotions, looking at me,
piercing through the fog painted window glass.

Ever since, I take fear to bed with me,
though times such flew draped in her face
is a spread – progression of
fear sprouted yesterday, bloomed yesterday, thrived yesterday,
living today and tomorrow, sprouting again tomorrow,
exponentially conquering the infinite me nobody read
and the point-me everbody understood.
Lamp post and her face, darkness, black and fear,
Why should sleep dare to fight a losing cause?


Years later, I forgot her face,
as sophisticated life ran away from immaturity,
and sleep turned a cave of disturbed fear,
darkness crying silently, burning me with her thoughts.
She was still inside,thinking,
my dreams were lamp posts, rain, lamp post in rain
and darkness, but not her eyes.
She’s still thinking through me,
uselessly revoking the fear to remember her face,
but her’s is a lost word, faded without traces.

Many nights have I-
since that lost childhood-
been clutching to them- useless prowess of
courage- holding onto it,
time after time, and again,
shuttering myself from the face I see at night, looking at me.
I can sense it, still precise and different from my own,
she thinking inside me,
searching through my apprehensions,
waiting for me to remember her face.

Days waited patiently,
for sun to run faster,
to turn the facade and help me again,
help me remember the face.
Of all world,
where her thoughts resides other than in me,
where she still searches steadily,
through a world no longer slower,
never letting go off my mind,
where her last resort blinks.

Night my reader,
is there anything as wasteful as a resource such as it
exists in this world or any other?
Helping everything but a tinge of rememberance.

I have long forgotten her face.

Am I ashamed? May be.
My fear is my disgrace. Childhood shamed me
with darkness, a girl, and her eyes.
Now maturity doing the
same, taunting with her face I buried in oblivion,
and she thinking inside me.
Only the best effort paints sheer darkness,
and the lamp post that exists, not anymore.

Childhood, Oh Childhood,
Why don’t you visit me tonight,
for once at this night and never again,
for her sake.
Vigour me with that fear so drowned in time,
Render me and plough my barren sleep for those fears
lift it back to sky,
and let me be afraid, but nothing else,
and in that darkness, help me Childhood,
to remember her face, I long forgot.



Read Again

book of books



A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.

Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.

Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.

Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.

Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
were freedom.

For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.


Lullabies in The Streets Mourn




They say, my lullabies impair plus than
menacing propulsion of lead sling, a lot more.
Oh my poor lullabies! Oh my dear lullabies!
Let these streets mourn your demise.

Sang you was of only the unrequited love,
glittered in this green grass tips,
spraying the revision of peace,
damped to flat by pacing boots, in brutality.

Weep you was of the naivety
in my son’s minuscule fingers forced
to hold on hardness of a grenade,
Forgetting the wimpy elation of dolls
he played on with the past moment.

Praised you was of my mother’s defiance,
bearing the hundreds of bodies,
which on each piercingly labelled
of the frith fruited in the dark redness,
long left unqualified to instigate.

The time had come, oh my lovely lullabies!
A time long awaited to deflower
the mines blossomed in these garden,
to drain the lakes smelling of blood and bones,
to stop the silence from being guillotine.

I pray the lullabies to defiant as ever more,
to echo through these streets no-ever lasting,
to raise hands in unison,
to live in our veins for hope bestowed.

And at this time,
Burying my friends, my mother,
My youth, my humanity,
I hope my lullabies trembles more
louder than gunshots and blasts.
I hope my lullabies are stronger.



The Fallen



We had a yesterday, me and this statue.

Stone-boned nakedness and grated eyes

of it, I bequeath now.

Lesser dawns flee reluctant before

Our eyes forgathered a glint of acquaintance.

And even lesser dusks failed to pass after

Confessed to it was of my sinned days.

We had a yesterday.


Remember I of its bravery, glancing unshaken

to the invincible burning skies, evermore.

More or less liable of recollecting the benevolence

It depicted, in thriving rains and scorching sun.

Disregarded was it by many,

and detested by a few more

for blenched remains of black sheath,

grotesque lone figure, eyesore to a few more.


Today, I look a space earlier present not,

once reckoned, a pale statue to summon.

Never far saw anyone I, whom

inferred the variance that was yesterday,

Nor a single soul apart me and stray crows,

empathized on the piece, today wasted.


Now, I pose the space,

con the dawns and desks.

I see a fallen, and remembers

a martyr of past, and confides in the

space that once was it.



The Girl In Blue


Pooja went missing.
One week before the missing happened, Gautam slept over a book, before reading these lines.
“Thoughts of any intensity whether discreet or loud, deliberately derives the source for a momentary realm. A realm of scant guesses and stupid confusions. And then stories bloom, veined from the moistened-slender thoughts. Stories conjured from deep emotional foundation. As humans, its an evolutionary compulsion we were taught with.
Just legacy.
Stories and magic have a lot of traits in common.What secret does the excitement furnished in magic holds?
We force ourselves to believe the deceiving tricks we see, even after knowing the gimmick beyond. We believe. Now, stories are likewise. We looms into the stories, rip down words, and we just let them sunk in.Regardless the fact that we are deceived by our own stories, we believe them. Thought-weaved stories. It is a power exhibition of magic, least to mention story makers are the greatest magicians in the world.”

14 yr old Pooja.
Blue-eyed, adventure savouring Pooja.
The same night, the night Gautam slept over that book, what ran through Pooja’s mind?
She full heartedly planned in on an adventure. An adventure she had longed for long. She indicated the thoughts of perpetual random sounds in the carnival, and thoughts of the diversity in stalls,trapeze players, wonder exhibitioners, comedians, gamblers. Picturesque scenario, it was. And then with a part of her daring mind, she thought of the magic show. A meagre fascination exuded in. The dark inquisitive atmosphere inside the magic hall, ears believing the soothing wonders, eyes curious about the moment next, hands applauding the brilliance of the magician. She wanted to see ‘The girl in blue’, and it stood alone in her amused mind for quite some time. She had seen it once, five or six years back, of which the memory was pale. She wanted to see it again, to feel the intangible intend of absolute magic.
That night, as told before, she planned in on adventure. The plan, that reasoned her missing.

What did her missing left Gautam with?
Before you care to answer, let me tell, this story concern less about Gautam, Or Pooja, or about her missing.This story is about magic.

It was long after sleep resigned from his bed, does Gautam thought of what a night’s difference could make. Last night, under the star populated sky, he was stimulated about doing something he felt adventurous. Something he thought, suffice to call so. Only an impalpable tinge of fear dipped inside, which was consoled soon after the remembrance of her words.
‘We must watch it before Venkat does’. She said some days ago, revising their common competitive hatred they reserved for Venkat. There is nothing to fear, Gautam. Nobody will know.’
After all, love is about the finding the hidden courage inside to do things that felt impossible. That night in sleep, he dreamt of a girl in blue appearing from an empty space.

And what of this night?. With a stressed mind, Gautam thought of Pooja. Where did she go? And with each ounce of thoughts about her, he felt more and more of a coward.He had let her go missing. Even if no one accused him for- which itself was a way too prediction, he knew it. It was him reasonable for her missing. He should have never left her.
And what could have happened to her ? In her thoughts, he inhaled deemed obsession and exhaled fire. Fire braced in fear.With weary eyes, he tried to remember her. It happened all of a sudden, he couldn’t remember her. Her smile. Her blue eyes. Even a momentary slice of her’s seemed to deviate from him. When he thought of her, all it was confined to was the sounds from the carnival, the whistles, welcoming sound of gamblers, shouting from volume of crowd, the scenes from the inauguration of grand food stall centre. And the silence that was disguised in the empty dark magic hall.

And Gautam did thought of the night after this. What awaits him?
Chaos, he felt. Future for him bounced chaos to his mind. He censured himself to greater degrees and wished they hadn’t gone to the carnival, bunking school. He wished he hadn’t gone trying the wagon wheel leaving Pooja alone.He wished today hadn’t happened like today.A chord of cry stacked in. Potentially, he silenced his weeping against the pillow.

Gautam heard prayer chantings from the room adjacent and realised grandma was still awake. She might be reading the beads of her rosary, he reckoned. He remembered how his grandma lamented child abductions and molestations. She, a social-worker long retired, had criticised the damaged moral virtues of the society for long. She prioritised the safety of children more than any other. He hadn’t took her’s for note ever, now there is a victim for it. The girl in blue is missing. It was little uncalled for him to think grandma’s assertions to Pooja’s missing, but such a thought was revolting inside and it let his tumult whirling, just like the magician whirls his wand, while doing magic. It can’t happen to her. Thinking the likes if it had, let him feel an eerie crawling in his already intact psyche.

‘Its not something new’. She told him.’Its certainly old, antiquated as history, that inclines us to believe its new, every time we see it. Lady in blue, is not just about magic, I can promise that. It lifts us to something extra. You may feel its impossible. Of course it is. That’s why we love it’. Despite the rock hard adeptness of Gautam, he surrendered to the compulsion. Between the school hours, the magic show on the carnival tented in the church ground,was not a peradventure possibility.
‘We can bunk the sports meet’.The Plan was finalised two days ago.

Walking to nearby bus stop, after leaving school unknowingly, Gautam and Pooja listened to Ayoob. The mad Ayoob, who sat below the laburnum. Sun-burnt, unshaven face and wrong grown hair. Like every other child, they were also taught to avoid him. But instead, Gautam liked Ayoob. Beyond the mad blabbers, beyond the irksome actions, there was something that distinguished Ayoob from the totalitarian society. People called him mad, but he was equitably different. He talked about things people less comprehend, even if taken to account that they listened. Coincidentally he talked about magic, that day.

‘Magic always want belief, magic loves eyes with belief, magic grows upon it. With belief only it gives its appealing clarity, reason and shape. Or else, its just an expanse of transient lying’. He went unperturbed. But even with belief, at the end, when thought hollow, magic is about self betrayal. Its cheating ourselves to some excitation. Its about losing something in self, than believing. Magic cheats you’.
And then his murmurings clung to those words, on and on and on.

‘It was seriously mean’. Pooja retorted later while travelling to carnival. ‘If I had tried to laughed it off, it would have been an offence. What do this mad man know about magic?’.

‘The girl in blue’. I tried to cool nerve and falter ourselves from Ayoob.’Isn’t it too trivial title for a magic trick?’

‘Maybe. But there is a story accompanying the title’. She explained what she knew. ‘Long time ago, the rule of Ottoman dynasty, it was then the invisibility magic tricks were first practised. There was an expert magician in there who made the audience  go inexplicable with the roun of his trick, “the lady in blue”.That was the reversion of his pre-eminence in craftsmanship. He crafted it well. And he had a beautiful assistant.Obviously, they were in love. Deep, mad love. Nobody knew their name. They were called red and blue for which the magician was always dressed in red and the girl in blue’.

‘During magic,She would hide herself in a stoor box. The magician will cover the box before whirling his wand over it three times, and then she was gone. Obscure. Just like that. Only the box remained,empty. She’ll reappear then, some time after, from some other side. Nobody could hypothesize where’.

‘This trick, is still conspired the old way, almost. Through ages, among the numerous mutation magic castrated, Girl in blue stayed alike.  Only men had changed his red to black. The girl remains blue, still.’

‘Have you heard about the first magic?’. She continued. ‘This happened long, long back. In distant past. Even before the Ottomans. Even before Alexander. Its some time we compel to call pre-historic. The then king, of lands and oceans sought a groom for the princess. But he had a condition, indubitably. The groom must be strong enough to forbear the whole world in his shoulders. The whole world, more or less. The king searched seven lands, and seven heavens, yet he couldn’t find a match. Even the strongest among the strong couldn’t do it. Some couldn’t carry the air, or for some, the water was difficult. Gravity, Soil, people. Everyone failed in carrying one or the other. How a world could be complete without any of these?. The King stood his ground and the princess remained single. Then came a man. With a fantasy hat and wand. He whirled his shallow piece of wood around and confined the whole world, the smell, the light, people, animals, gravity, everything inside the princess and then carried her. It was a stupendous act, the King hadn’t even dreamt of. He was convinced. The magician and princess got married. It was the first act of magic known’.

Gautam remembered the eerie, timid feeling he had when walked through the vacant, dark magic hall. The half crushed plastic bottles, soft drink cans, cigarette butts and food wrappers were stretched throughout the hall.The place did smelled of devoid mystery, rather magic.

“It is too early for the show”. A dark silhouette from the dull stage had shouted. It was difficult to find the face who sourced the voice. Outside, the inauguration of a mega food mall was progressing. Some sound vibrations of the cause rooted inside the hall and it reverberated inside. Pooja later told him how she felt the place way too odd for magic.
“You could hang out for couple of hours, or” An intended pause was shot at Pooja and he continued “you could wait. May be I can show you our workshop, where we practice to entertain”.

He laughed then,It wasn’t a giggle,Gautam could remember. Nor a guffaw. It was a fiendish, voluminous laughter. Through echoes, the silhouette reached every place. Gautam grabbed Pooja’s hand and they ran to exit.

Thinking through his palpated heart, Gautam wished he hadn’t gone to the wagon wheel. The decision to try it alone, to show off the spurious bravery drawn inside him, that was biggest of the mistakes he did that day. When Gautam returned from the wagon wheel, she was gone. Intoxicated to the point of being known. The population congregated at the grand fool stall, among which she stood when Gautam went to wagon wheel, had dispersed and she wasn’t there. Just erased. Like a wand whirled, she was gone. It took him less than a moment to apprehend she was missing, and to actualize the darkness breaching his eyes. She is missing. Just like a reflection obliterate at the touch of a feather, her blue eyes were gone.

He searched, from everywhere to everywhere.He asked the crowd, from everyone to everyone.Every question he asked the people around, confused him with a reply bizarre in flow than how he asked. People seemed to take him minuscule for their interest. He wanted to ask more people. He wanted to search more places. He wanted to disclose the burden he was bearing to some one, but the fright of a response unfavourable, let him silent. He dragged his mind to believe this was part of a magic. May be like the girl in blue, she would reappear, from somewhere. He really hoped so. Only, she didn’t come.
Inevitably, the chapter ended. Evening was born. Up in the sky, placid intense of blue  was replaced by the menacing red. Down here,Pooja was gone, Gautam remained. Later, walking home drenched in heavy rain, Gautam perceived of the possibilities that could’ve embraced her. And each of them heaped more reverence in him and less hope. May be she got home safely, he endeavoured trust in his thought-weaved story. On reaching home, he tried to ring her but the rain had already paralysed the telephone lines. He wanted to talk about it. With phone dead, parents abroad, and grandma not an option, he felt alone. He felt like Ayoob. He wanted to cry. Cry like it would comfort him. He had nobody to discuss his mind with, to cry with, and with unexplainable downfall and agonising clarity, he realised what a hold she had over him.

In bed, Gautam thought what would happen tomorrow?
Chaos, it will be. He will be seized tomorrow. Accused of bunking class, and moreover of suspicion regarding her missing. He wished today hadn’t gone like today. Whatever Ayoob confronted felt legitimate to the extent. “Magic is more about losing something in self, than believing”. Gautam had lost something.

His thoughts went serene sometimes,narrowly. He thought may be he had gone too far. She must be home. She could’ve felt something wrong and went home. May that was it.But what if not?. What if something had happened to her for real?. His mind swayed like a pendulum tirelessly between both the extremities. It went on and on. And at midnight, he felt sleepy. Like snowdrops crawling the window pane, sleep conquered him.

Before dawn, Gautam had a nightmare. A wand was whirling around a box with an extreme force of motion, yielding a hissing sound. Gautam, the lone spectator was seeking the magic upcoming, closely. Suddenly, the box bounced to his feet. Inside, all left was blood. Blood with traces of blue. When Gautam woke,trembling, he was bathed in his sweat, just as was in rain some hours ago. It was Five past four. Dawn. His mind again lend space to accommodate something said by Ayoob.
“When we wake up at dawn, nightmares, insomnia, or because of anything, or if even without any reason, it is because someone remembers you, and want to be remembered back.” Ayoob had told once.
True, it is. Gautam knew no matter whatever people scorn Ayoob, when problems arise, that madman’s words were divine. Gautam left the idea to pursue sleep. He just stayed in bed, remembering Pooja. She would’ve conveying him, and wanted equivalent, he thought. It was like a telepathy expelled, but never received.

Next day, Gautam voluntarily reached school before anyone does, and waited for her. He waited at the corridor. Then in front of class. Then near the seat she usually takes. Venkat came. Other classmates came. When the live buzzing of school settled in for daily chores, her seat remained vacant. The first period started and she hadn’t come. Or she will not. Ever. Gautam felt very much of all these. He felt a distressed and tranquil hollow insidious. Sleepy, Gautam rested his head against the bench. He knew he had enough of sustained, awful time and needed rest. Effortlessly, he drowned to sleep. The teacher, with bifocal glass and less focussed eyes, bothered him less.It was over now.

Soon before the end of first period, Gautam had his certainty. He was vigorously separated from his sleep to inform he was wanted by the principal. He knew that was it. Only the interrogative inquisitiveness of what had happened to her stayed the course. He let all the curious eyes probing him to descend in. They’ll know soon. ‘I’m convicted’. He uttered silently. ‘And my judgement is near. I knew it was certain. It was just a matter of when’.

Magic, suits more with the empowered sense of utter joy and pleasurable emotion of astonishment. When Gautam turned the corridor to principal’s room, he beheld a sight of surprise. A surprise whose head hung down eyeing the uniform motion of ants. And In reply to footsteps, the surprise looked up.Then, he saw the face of a girl he couldn’t recollect past night. He saw a smile hidden pitched in the saddened face. He saw a pair of blue eyes, that he always wanted to believe at most. The girl in blue, just as in magic, had reappeared from somewhere. All of once, His body was intensifying the charisma of a moment he thought was impossible. Indeed, it was impossible. May be that’s why he loved it in abundant.
‘My dad was there yesterday, for the inauguration’.She confessed before Gautam entered the room. ‘And I had to tell him whom I was with. I couldn’t help it, Sorry’.
Her confession was short, but Gautam knew it had more apologies. It doesn’t matter now. Apologies or no apologies.

As Gautam had expected, her Parents were inside. Walking to them, the short distance to judgement, he lived a long trance of the day before.He felt his thoughts too cumbersome and silly. And foolish. ‘Thoughts are magic’, he comprehended.It had deceived him, his own thoughts. They are the most amazing magic tricks and thinkers, faint or solid are the best magicians in the worlds. And during the short walk, despite the strict and repulsive atmosphere, he was relieved. Relieved from the greatest magic he lived and only the wonder remained. He celebrated it with a silent smile. Whatever awaits him in here, explanation from parents, suspension, or even dismissal concerned him less. The girl in blue had reappeared.

Two years later, when the school auditorium opened, a magic show came to school. Among the perplexed and gratified audience, Gautam and Pooja breathed the charm of magic. Bullet catch, Dove pan, Head mover, shadow vision, and last came the girl in blue. A girl in blue attire covered herself in a box.The magician whirled his wand around it and seconds after when the was box opened, as you guessed, she wasn’t there. Some gasped, some uttered their fascination, some simply blinked, hard to believe what they have witnessed. Before claps, Pooja looked at Gautam sitting two rows behind and smiled. He paid a smile back and waited for the girl in blue to reappear.


The Day We Went To Seashore


I remember the day.
None need to be spoken of how;
no ardous skills demanded,
that guarantee I delivers.
And none need to be spoken of why,
as its evident as these lines,
for dreams I sown as hope then,
she blossom springs of love now.
I remember that day.

I remember the evening sky.
Golden sun beackoned in horizon,
radiating shore in yellow lusture.
Monsoon wind, swifting around us,
bridges us through the space seperates.
And seagulls, flying in far shade,
soothing with feel of well-being.

I remember her thick hair,
waving like a flag,promisingly familiar
to my own conscience, more or less,
for I dwelled and built upon
a kingdom under that flag.

I remember her face,
waxed in sand,
and her smile, joyous and full-fledged.

I remember the taste of her saltened kiss,
and this moment lifts me to time where
romantic gold surrendered to melancholy night.
I remember the goodbye she spared,
silent like dead night sea.

Memories are pounding my mind,
likewise the waves pounced those rockbeds.

I remember she-like sea.
I remember Me-like sky.
I remember my love,
Oh memory, you blips me what I forgot,
here you nobility shall be champ.

Lot more I remember,
but I fail to line them anymore.
Now is the time,
words come short of love.




ദൈവമെന്ന പൂജ്യമേ,
കല്ലിനും കുരിശിനും കുറുകെ
നീണ്ടുയര്‍ത്തുന്ന കോട്ടകളാകുന്നു
ഭൂമിയിലെ യഥാര്‍ത്ഥ തടവറകള്‍ .

ഈരേഴുലോകത്തിലുമില്ല നീ
എന്നാ സത്യംമറച്ച്‌,
നിന്നെ പ്രതിഷ്ഠിക്കുന്ന ആള്‍രൂപങ്ങളാകുന്നു
നിരപരാധിത്വം സ്ഫുരിക്കുന്ന
അടിമയാം തടവുപുള്ളികള്‍.

സ്വസോദരനെ തള്ളിമാറ്റിയടുതെത്തി,
പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥനയെന്ന ആജ്ഞാപനഭീഷണിയില്‍
ഛര്‍ദ്ദിക്കുന്ന ഈ നീചമനുഷ്യരാകുന്നു
നിന്റെ അവകാശസൂക്ഷിപ്പുകാരായ ജന്മികള്‍.


ഭക്തനെന്ന അത്യാഗ്രഹീ,
നാമവും നീനീല്‍ക്കുമീ
ഭക്തിച്ചന്തയില്‍ മാത്രമൊതുങ്ങുന്നു.
പള്ളി-അമ്പലങ്ങളില്‍ മാടിവിളിക്കും
തേടൂ, നീയൊരു ജന്മംമുഴുവന്‍,
കണ്ടുകിട്ടാതൊരു ദൈവത്തെ.
നീ തള്ളിമാറ്റിയ സോദരനിന്‍
നിസ്സഹായതയില്‍വസിപ്പൂ ദൈവം.
നീയാകാണും തോട്ടംനനയ്ക്കും
വയസ്സനിന്‍ പുരികത്തിലുറഞ്ഞുകൂടും
വിയര്‍പ്പുത്തുള്ളികളാണ്‌ ദൈവം.
ഈ പൂത്തുലഞ്ഞ പാടംകൊയ്യും
കൊയ്യ്തരിവാളിന്‍ മുനയില്‍പോലും.
തിരിച്ചറിയൂ മനുഷ്യാ,
ദൈവമില്ലായിടം ഭൂമിയില്‍,
ഈ ആരാധനാലയങ്ങള്‍ മാത്രം.


ദൈവമെന്ന നുണയേ,
അന്യന്‍ നാമജപങ്ങള്‍ ഉരുവിട്ടുതീര്‍ത്ത
അവന്റെ കഷ്ടപ്പാടിന്റെ
ഭണ്ഡാരപിച്ചച്ചട്ടിയില്‍ വീഴും
ഭിക്ഷമാത്രം ഭോജിച്ചുകഴിയുമടിമയേ,
ഈ കവിതയുടെ മനുഷത്വം ഒരുമാത്ര പിടയ്ക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
ധര്‍മ്മബോധം പെരുമ്പറ മുഴക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
എങ്കിലും, ക്ലാവുപിടിച്ച സഹതാപതിന്‍
നൊമ്പരപൊട്ടായി അവസാനിച്ചുപോകുന്നു
നീയെന്‍ നിര്‍ഭയഭാവമേ.


ചതഞ്ഞരഞ്ഞ ശ്യൂന്യതയില്‍
ഇനിയും പ്രതീക്ഷയുണ്ട്.
ഒരുനാള്‍വരും നായകര്‍,
നിന്നെ മോചിപ്പിക്കാന്‍.
അനുനയതീക്ഷണതയില്‍ ഗാന്ധിയും
തീപന്തമേന്തി ചെ ഗുവേരയും.
അത്രെയുംനാള്‍, കാണേണ്ടയീ
കണ്ണുമുറുക്കിയടച്ച്‌ കാതോര്‍ക്കുക,
നാളെകേള്‍ക്കുമാ വിപ്ലവസൂക്തങ്ങള്‍ക്കായ്.