The Casino

Casino is the place when one is robbed the other celebrates,
Money and money is seen everywhere,
Cards smoke and alcohol can be named casino,
Which is lightened everyday.
Is it like life?
One day we are also happy the other day gloominess surrounds us,
We are also running after money, same as casino,
Betrayal, deceive is what life nowadays is named,
Due to which no light is left.
But, the truth remains the same,
Like in casino, the owner, the creator never loses they always win.

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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I the Assasinor

Today, too I am loaded with gun,
To kiss the person to the dusk of his life,
I always get worried when the trigger starts telling me,
'Come on, press me shoot the man.'
And, I have to press, as it's my job.
It's my work to make living fresh flesh to motionless corpse,
Else I cannot make my living,
Nor can I feed my family,
Today again I pulled the trigger,
Shed tears after making a body motionless,
No, its not crocodile's tears which means victory,
But, the tear is of sympathy,
Sympathy not for the dead man,
But for myself because due to his death my family is fed.

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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What those marriage worth, I am already yours

What those marriage worth, I am already yours
We have marriage by heart not by rituals.
Our marriage is pious then those done by priests
And those other who are eyeing are big fool

Those who tell that I have no right on you
Don’t know that we are lovers by heart
Our children have already started to play
Not those physical children but our love has passed third anniversary.

Is physical marriage bigger then natural?
Even god believes in original heart marriage
Who dare to discard my say can anyone tells me?
If not then why dismay in her physical marriage

I am already husband of yours and you my wife
That crimson in your head, necklace in your neck has not value.

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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Does War Bring Peace

I had learned power increases, when we preserve,
But, I see each are showing their strength
I had learned powerful never shows it
But, I see each are showing their strength as exhibition.

I had asked once to my father why is power being used,
He replied me it’s for peace by the country to rebellion
I wondered how a peace is brought by guns
I thought peace is dropping of guns

Now, I have got new knowledge for peace
It’s the path of blood, which brings blood
And ends where only in saying, place is coming
But when will it come only the killers know

Yes, terrorism is about to end coz each human will be dead
Due to one determination of people that blood shed will bring peace to bed.

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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Museum of Culture

Preserving the culture has been like the tusk of mastodons,
This is only suitable for preserving in the billiard balls,
Sustaining the culture has been like the extinct saber truth,
That is only suitable for experimental use.

Other customs are influencing on the real ones,
Like Mongols of east, east culture is ruling west,
And, as barbarians of west, west cultures have come to east,
So, preserving it has been a museum’s job.

In the show case of museum our tradition is seeing the change,
Youth are busy copying other’s tradition,
All are getting puzzled in culture,
Can’t we once again retain our own ethnicity?
The clear answer I hear is ‘no’.
Thanks to Museum of culture which is dong it.

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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Those bare forests

When I was young, I had gone to this forest,
It was dark, deep and wild,
Like my youth it was full of resources,
I had spent few days there and had learned how the forest life is?
Forest life means survival of the fittest,
I could not find difference between city and forest,
In city too only the fittest can survive else the human who have wore the leather of lethal animal will not let the herbivore animal like us to live.

After twenty years struggling in the city and being tortured by children,
I returned back to the same forest to see its growth,
I could see it was bare, cut by poacher, deforesters,
It had not followed its own rule and the trees which it holds were all ageing like me,
We both were thrown out of the society it was thrown by cutting and I by my own sons.
I and it had the same fate bare with few more ageing hair and trees to be removed.

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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They are Westerners

Have you seen else where a denim man with gaucho in hand,
Handling a huge horse with just a star in the shoe,
Boot that commands the land, hand that hints a man is coming,
Eyes that is deep as the Appalachian Mountains.

Whenever I look at them
With their eyes floating like rivers to all sides,
Guns the only thing to protect them from wild,
And their wind talker horse who guide them to the safety.

Those rolled tobacco in their mouth and few dollars to pay for all,
The puff when it rolls and the sea of alcohol it gets enforce,
Those shabby jackets, lands in a seat and the shirt collars which kisses the heat,
Dusts are coming from their body which shows how much work they are meant for.

They do not know what the fear is,
They even do not know what begging is,
They know only to work and earn,
Field their land with stables and graze all the horses and buffaloes.

[...] Read more

poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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