Strange

Right in the middle

Of the troubled lands,

The intelligent brains

Have won many accolades,

They have conquered the outer space,

Yet the thinking hearts

Are unable to win their minds;

With reason, none could find

A win-win way to concur,

A system robust and strong

Not to kill and fight.

Strange that both are

So horribly right,

Yet both, equally wrong.

In the countries recharged with animosity,

Bitterness, and disaster, catapulted with

Mindless weapons, devious arms

Endorsing ceaseless killing, spilling of blood,

A poet, like a stranger, stretches its arms

And writes about the resurgence of friendship

In the peace-loving minds of the neighbors. 

The reality is dark, things are falling apart

Countries, as it were, are concentrating

On how to harm, how to hurt each other;

Making the sellers of weapons richer

Year after year, like Kalidasa, who was seen

Cutting the branch of the tree on which he was sitting

They both are severing their own growths,

They’re sabotaging their own economies;

Strange still that they'll continue to be

Sincere enemies, no one, no citizen tells

The leaders to focus on growth, not to fight,

That killing is not winning, it is never right.

But the poet helplessly ignores all of this!

Perpetually in the winsome world,

Permanently in bliss, paints a picture

Of prosperity, opulence, and happiness;

The blind nonjudgmental eyes see more

Of understanding, of camaraderie,

Like intoxicating, deep-rooted folklore,

The ears hear the appeal from the mosques

From the breaking dawn to the parting dusk,

They listen to the chants from the temples; therefore,

The poet sits on one corner like a child,

Composes a world of its own on a piece of paper,

Brings back all the fond memories,

Establishes again the paradise on earth

Not anymore occupied by intruders,

The poet imagines heaven, as it were,

Bustling with the long-lost brothers and sisters.

Why is this simple thing a challenge,

The poet ponders, finds it strange.