Harish K. Thakur
(Himachal Pradesh - India)

Cell Ph. ++91-9418008900
email : harish_070@yahoo.co.in


I have lived for centuries
Under the myth of shadow.
Satan's millennia
And the dread of Hades engulfs.

Ah! A long night of groans.
The ghosts of the rumpled skins
And the starved guts
Haunt me.

In the land of dead
The rivers of blood flow
The curls of life drown
In the deluge of sea waves.
Wolves lick the stains
Over the stolid bones
Under the wide gyrates of Vultures
And the deadened hearts bury deep
In the canyon of unconscious.

Withered I look for the dawn
The Mana
For the warmth of your supple arms
And the touch of soul.

Like a tall cypress
You rise far above the weeds
And sing the melody out of your psalter
To salve the wounds
Roof well
The ferocities of time.

© Author

(Published in Kafla Intercontinental - Jan-April 2013)


A spurn tosses around
The intrepid feet.
The Gypsy boys have learnt
The art of survival.
In the seems of filth
And the debris
Are scattered the Dinars,
The grains of life
And the foul of the city.
A rose beholds the youth
And the doleful heart,
Flickering over
The deadened senses
Of the decrepit people..
Singeing over the clenched fist
Distorting the supple hands
And the wrangled lines of fate.


In 1995 at Oberwart
In South-West of Vienna
Cool they stood
For the honour and dignity
Of the glories shrouded
And the crest of the community.
The Gothic-styled Tombstone
That stood ahead
They stared for a while,
And undid the letters
Charcoaled on it
“Gypsies go back to India”.
The pipe-bomb concealed behind
Blasts into their face,
And a cruel Nazi mind
Brings the four to the ground
And to humanity disgrace.
And Lo!
The font of justice dry
As media and police dub it a suicide
For Romas another dismal page
In the history of gloom and cry. *

(Published in Kafla Intercontinental - Spring-2016)