Every storm of this age

seems to overpower me

all the tornadoes of today

arise to destroy my ship

the rage of the rising tides

holds its grudge against me

the babbles of the noises

seduce me into the stream of chaos.



as a tower of trust I stand

in the vastness of fuming waves.

I am aware of the dangers

from the East and the West.

I know I am surrounded

by the demons of insanity.

Still I fight alone

holding the shield of light.


On my behalf

someone should inform the winds

that no one should ever dare

to rend my mast.

All the storms and tornadoes

and all the thunders

I can face alone.


I stir the ocean of time

fashioning my life

on the open deck of justice.

From the ocean

I bring out the pearls of truth.


With my own strength

and patience

I shall continue postponing

each Armageddon.





The seed of democracy

sprouts in the open air

of that soil

which is freely watered

by freedom of expression

and where tongue of serpent

does not throw poison of fear

to fertilize the land

for the thorns of repression

to grow.


The plant of democracy

blossoms into

the fruits of abundance

and its branches dance

to the tune of a song

which brews a wine for peace.


The shade of the tree

provides the joys

of social equality

through self-governing winds.


Cruelty can uproot a weed

but to uproot it--- no !

Only autocrats will do it

to cause irreparable loss

to the stems of humanity.

They feed

the violent denizens

with stolen produce

from the orchards of

the powerless gardeners.




A lotus

I dwelt in those waters

where I received warmth

from the breeze of liberty.

The hands of the judiciary

caressed me

singing a murmuring lullaby.

Under the eyes of the press

I enjoyed my memorable sleep.

Life was like that of the swans

who around me danced.


One day

an autocrat

with the help of his wolves

plucked me from where I swayed

to adorn the rough hair of his beloved,

the reign of terror.


This maid of wild desires

dashed me on the coldness

of her dresser of gold

before retiring for a night of horrors.

She did not hear my sobs.


A captive of fear

I cried to her silently

not to cast me

out of the window of law

to be trampled by savages.


I implored the maid

to take me back

to the waters of bliss

but nothing

melted her iron gates of self.


For lack of a proper burial

my spirit wanders now.

People can perceive me

in the glow

of the setting sun beyond the rocks,

in the wind that blows in sunny fields,

in the moon that smiles on the borderless sky

and in the lap of children's dreams.



Stephen Gill