Their original markings are covered

They look beautiful

And can tempt the eye.

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, a renowned poet and writer from Chandigarh, India, shares his mystic poetry

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, based in Chandigarh, is an Indian poet and scholar credited with 170 plus books of English literature, philosophy and spirituality. He won great Serbian Award Charter of Morava and his name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He was honored with Seneca Award LAUDIS CHARTA by Academy of Arts & Philosophical Sciences, Bari, Italy 2024. He is Founder President of the International Academy of Ethics and conferred Doctor of Philosophy (Honoris Causa) by University of Engineering & Management, (UEM) Jaipur. Email anandjs55@yahoo.com 

Biblio-link: https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home   

PAINT

We paint things so that

Their original markings are covered

They look beautiful

And can tempt the eye.

As we say beauty lies in the eye

Of the beholder

So we just serve the eye

It does not matter how it is in reality

Is it not strange

The sweets sold in fairs

Are covered with silver ‘vark’ (layer)

So that they shine from a distance?

Rotten things need to be given

A harder dose of the silver vark

Which covers everything

All scars, all patches, all Illnesses.

How much time we spend in front of the mirror

And put heavy paint

On our lips, cheeks, and on our bodies

And to beat the stink, how many deos and scents?

Worldly paints only make

A paradise of hell

And make third rate things

Like hot cakes sell.

***

I WAS THERE

You did not see me,

It does not mean

I was not there.

I was there

Though it was the singer

On whom

The camera was fixed.

The music was on, didn’t ye hear?

I was there

Among them who were

Making the music

Had I not been there

There would have been

No singers, nor any song.

It would have been

Just a weird noise

I was there

Participating in the creation

Of the orchestra divine

I was not in the view of the camera

I was not the hero

I was fighting

It was I who fell

When the hero became hero.

_______________  

Read: Amiss – Mystic Poetry from India

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