Koramangala Hari Das is an Indian street writer. He is well known for his poetry’s especially street poetry’s. He as a poet and writer is writing for the coming next centuries. He wants his work to act as a closed gate for all those in humanitarian acts against human life so that at least coming generation can be free from the curse we are facing today. For this purpose he believes street is the best place where he can work because all the negativity’s present in this world can be easily traced from here. In this way his Book An Ink Fruit – Streets (Bhopal) as first volume.
Way I remember those passers in my way Who never went again like a cunning way I know, each span of life It finishes with each death of life Centuries passed over by me Without giving a notice But I am still that black dammar With that old concrete which forms a way I am an object which is suppressed By this whole human kind To find their designated way I am here from many years But my age can only be known From that government register Which is still pending in its way So I call myself a centuries’ way Variety of people passes by me Variety of vehicle passes by me What I sensed is Without me they can be hopeless So I feel proud that I am their way Old men’s with their walking sticks knock me To ask, where is my end? Drunken people squirt on me It shows my class for them But joggers with their smooth boot Run over by me where I feel With each foot steps Like a pampering soul of mind And greets me for my good work For this human kind But nobody things about me Nobody cares about me As everyone need is their way I am not a human being But I also have some wounds It follows me with each century of life My wounds are my pain Filled with pits holes and gutters My wounds are my struggle For the sake of human life With each pass of tires I sense with my heart I can’t cry I can’t show my pain But it hurts me a lot I have to suffer I will suffer After all I am their way My wounds cheat me sometimes Unfortunately or fortunately I pass my pain to the man kinds In the way of terrible accidents But this is not in my hand As he described and I obeyed With huge strength, in my own way I tell to them it’s not my fault But they only know is to blame me By saying that, this way is not a Wright way What I did? Is showing a way is not a good suggestion? But to whom should I ask? To that government which is sleeping? To those people who only knows How to use me? To the vehicles which pass by me? As I don’t know what is my need I only know is What the people need Forgive me people For my pains which is filled in my ways As I am a part of nature Who only knows the darkness Of that dark end So people call me a way………. Hari Das
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Babu's Death (31/03/2016)
Some Words to Heaven (31/03/2016)
Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/haridas
Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.