The Lantern & the Library of Life... (Draft)

The Lantern & the Library of Life... 

Within the kingdom of thought and flame,  

Neurons weave each fragile name,  

Threads of memory, dreams that rise,  

Goals and ambition in human skies.  

But the Lantern of Endless Night will burn,  

Its restless fire bends time’s return,  

Gravity pulls the mind astray,  

The Jester laughs, and sleep decays.  

Beyond, the Library of Vanishing Pages,  

Lost in black holes, silent ages,  

The Thief of Names steals hope away,  

Turning bright words into gray.  

Yet society is hands that hold,  

Hearts entwined through young and old,  

In bonds of care, in love’s embrace,  

Ambition finds its rightful place.  

Then comes the Keeper of Dawn in flight,  

Racing faster than beams of light,  

Through rivers of time he mends the scrolls,  

Restores our dreams, renews our souls.  

So though the night may bend and hide,  

And black holes swallow stars inside,  

The dawn will rise, both bold and bright,  

Together we guard the human light.  

P. S. Insomnia, Alzheimer, Society, Love, Human Being & relations

Vipul Arwade

29.11.2025

The Seed from Bengal...(Draft)

 The Seed from Bengal...

I came not with sword, nor plague, 

but with whispers stitched in time. 

To warn a land of golden grain  

of hunger’s quiet death.

In Bengal’s womb, the monsoon wept, 

but harvests vanished. 

Promises kept  by none 

who ruled from distant thrones.  

The boats were full, the markets loud.

The priests sang hymns to rising sun.  

I walked through lanes of woven silk,  

a stranger, seen by none.

I found the poet, the merchant’s wife,  

the child who danced with threadbare feet.  

I spoke of silence, creeping slow, 

of girl dressed in heat.

“War is far,” the King said,  

“Bengal shall feast, as it has done.”  

Yet still I placed a seed of truth  

in the hearts that beat like drum.

And when the grain betrayed the soil,  

& coins grew sharp, and mouths grew dry. 

Stomachs bloated, mothers wept,  

with no breast milk left to cry.

One boy listened with eyes like dusk,  

He held my hand and asked me how.  

I gave him maps, a path to flee,  

Before the rice turned ash somehow.

Now decades pass like drifting smoke,  

& still I walk through time’s grieve. 

A traveler with no home or face,  

who saved one soul. 

But still dreaming the terror  

of starvation in his eyes.. 

Vipul Arwade

06-11-2025

P. S. A time traveller, Bengal famine of 1943