The homeless man can only,
Stitch cotton bricks around him.

And march on dunes, on rocks,
And across wadis and moist beds.

While over near the Pacific Ocean, you see hundreds
Of turtles, rushing to the ocean tide,

Not knowing what lies inside,
This mammoth saline fortress.

Life is only a bounty, that in the absence,
Of foundation or roots,

Is just a movable panorama, from one
Place to another, one hour to the next,

Hunting bare-knuckled, rubber-soled,
Chasing kinder horizons.


Gay Man in Love

Beauty is not always right,
Not always symmetrical, never always a gaze
At what you don’t possess,
And the other does. Beauty is more
Obvious, stranger, mirroring
A sculpture that can never be paired
In mythology or inside the pages of the bible,
But lives in the souls of those,
Who drift from the time-eroding institutions
Of gender relations, to witness,
How on the top of a pseudostem
One can house a banana heart,
Which in the stranglehold of a feeling,
Preserves a long-lived tradition
That rarely sums up to an eternity,
But is protracted to a lengthy lease.
And a plant that bears water-lodged leaves,
And has no worth for seeds, can be
Seen swaying in the mildest mistral,
Opposing a careless myth, manifesting
The beauty of what it takes,
To love and be loved, as a perennial.

The Walk Through No Man’s Land


The faces eager for survival.
The long walk through the cracked earth,
And little tunnels of Ataturk’s land.
The dawns of regathering your mettle,
The eves of laying down your arms,
The days that bridge dawn and dusk,
Courage and desperation.

And you just have to look at a little child
To see, how amber like, their eyes are,
Preserving the fossils of a long walk
While the soft-proteins, on their soles
And palms, turn to hedgehog skin,
And you can only guess the horror
That two innocent eyes can witness.

And here, you find entrapped
Inside a palpitation chamber, the locked
Ammunition of hate, that like
A tall pine tree, opening up and detonating
Thousands of tiny yellow pollen, shoots with no aim.
You hope to god, that invisibility boiling below
The poker face, will never hold an AK47
Or a grenade, or wear a detonating vest.

Hate, the kind that manifests in rage,
Is a sleeping giant, who when awakened,
Is no match for the innocent Lilliputians,
Little children who are caught
In the crossfire, of that never-ending war,
Divided by the count or absence, of a small piece of open skin,
That shoots little bullets, bridging life with life,
And yet lives mightier than a ballot slip
Through an open heart, the vote that counts,
In the most primal democracy of them all – love,
Which cares little, about a snippet
Of redundant skin.

Gay Pride 2


Evolution works on the principle
Of natural selection. Darwin said that long ago.

What is less cumbersome to select
Than one generation of perfect symmetry

What no gamete can aspire
To protract beyond the point of lapse.

How beautiful is the bush with two colorful birds
Or two fluffy-eared jack rabbits?

And how endearing is recreation absented
Of procreation, holding the nacre of true love

To break out of an oyster shell
Out of a rock terrace, out of the ocean

Out of a wooden closet, to become naturalized
To a status quo, where kaleidoscopic rainbows

Vindicate how much beauty there is
In sheer symmetry. Just look, at those

Sunflowers, nautilus shells, peacock tails – all beauties of nature,
Just like how endearing two bodies are

Which only know the absolute need
To be a palindrome.