Skip to main content

I AM THE SON OF THE SUN - RADHEYA



My Birth,
a childhood mistake,
of my innocent mother.
An untimely experimentation,
Of a well deserved boon.
Curse not the sage who granted,
Curse not my ashamed mother,
Curse not my helpless father,
Curse not anyone, it was my destiny,
and I had to play !


My life,
tactfully coloured,
with haunting childhood dreams.
with unconditional love
from my unfortunate foster parents.
With passion for a skill of the kshatriya clan
to which I knew not I belonged.
With the purest form of loyalty
to those who stood by me.
with mistakes, unforgivable.
With my generosity and courage,
well  acclaimed.
with battles against my foes
who unexpectedly turned to be my brothers.
With consistent curiosity and rage
to tear up the curtain of illusion
and peep into the intentionally buried reality !

 My death ,
On a battle ground.
Unlike any other warrior,
the result of an unintended lie
to my beloved guru.
With a million dormant questions,
about the purpose of my life,
death seemed to gift me,
this Sun’s child called Karna,
with abundance peace
that life had never offered!

                - (C)Vasanthi



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

List of Confessions

Photo by  Álvaro Serrano  on  Unsplash One, You should try writing a love letter to yourself, I have written one to myself, it took me 17 years to complete it, that's also how long it took  for me to decide  if I loved myself. Two, I believe that the heart is flat  in our minds, that's why it is so easy to  rekindle a wound and also why  everything is just a finger's distance from healing. Three, I forgot my own phone number at a cafe coffee day counter, she kept repeating  the first few numbers that I had uttered without giving me space to think, maybe we are all her  when it comes to counting our mistakes. Four, I have a thing for languages, both for those I understand and those that I don't,  I would listen to hours and hours of urdu poetry  without knowing what it meant, maybe that is also one kind of silence. Five, I have thought too often about  what I would name myself  if not for what I have been named, everyt...

Poetry

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash What If poems read each other, would they fall in love with each other, or their poets or would they elope in search of the long lost lovers these poets barely take the name of but have a minimum of 15 lines, a winter and an unanswering sky  in their poems? (C) Vasanthi

Friendship Factory

Friendship factory Cherry-dropped cakes stacked across glassed counters, my tiny pony tail dances in excitement, friendship oozes out of my eyes, as a 5-year-old, chocolate was my best friend; 19 years old now, nothing has changed. Yet again, like closely knit sweaters, it was family that taught us to share these cakes, it was family that taught us friendship. As the clock strikes four, door bells also ring. Our badminton rackets giggle at all our wrongs shots, the cars that we framed as our hiding spots might still want our fingers to run over its glasses to trace random patterns, I’m sure our cycles have heard our voices more than mobile phones, dear childhood friend, our friendship always rhymes with joy and innocence. We make all kinds of friends- that “When is the next train?” friend, “can you edit my picture?” friend, “I don’t understand this!” friend, “I now want coffee.” friend, “what is life?” friend and “Can I not wake up today!” friend. We are also friends with a ...