My painful past

When I stand before the
Gate way of India,
when I sit in the intercity express,
travel through , to see the stops,
to see the sign boards,

My painful past opens up
its hidden pages and hoary
vistas, the sad markings,
it is easy to preach, forget
The past, when you were

A butt of ridicule,
because others were crude,
the sad past with the
sorrowful woes, embittered days,
Time alone can heal these wounds,

Ringtones of melody of present
weave into poignant malady of past,
those discs are winding and winding,
echoing classical tunes of unmatchable rhythm,
always the cyclic rhythm of of heart in tune.

The whole humanity joins
in your unbounded mirth,
but in your suffering , you alone
stand with gathered strength,
struggle and survive but not give in.