Tag Archive: singer


Why does the sun dry up so many scattered tears
Slipping down the coarse cheek of a million hushed fears
Where no one is scalded though the searing fog clears
While prayers are mutely spoken even as the end nears

We shatter and scrape on demented knees
Blindly begging for mercy as it silently flees
Searching listlessly for salvation drowned in the breeze
That spits at the soft rose suffocated by a wheeze

I know now what I need never have known
Of hope that was trampled before it had flown
Into a wasted sky filled with hate that could drown
The giggling of the crowd and the crying of the clown

A hope so fragile its wings were of brittle glass
Ripping the veneer off the sewers of class
Twisting the fabric of the weighed and costed mass
Who numbly waited hoping that it too may pass

For when shards of that hope in all hearts scurries away
To a darkness where crowded night is emptied off the heaving tray
’Tis then when sewn eyes behold that doleful day
When all shall tear at each other while on demented knees we still pray

For a lifting of the veil of that wilful deceit
That’s wrapped up in a flag swollen with conceit
While the limbs splinter in the claw of a winner’s defeat
Yet still the drums roll for the ill-fated souls chose never to retreat

From that drenched battleground where blood flows through a sieve
And love’s lost song plaintively begs for a reprieve
From eternal loss which into raw emotion does cleave
Only to slip through the fingers and like grains of sand leave

( for Bob Dylan )

A Tribute to Bruce Springsteen … … …
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it was a rain-swept monsoon day,
way back then, so many moons away

when i felt the music strumming in my veins,
setting me free like a runaway horse without any reins

you sang of simple truths,
your verse spoke to people just like me,
in my lonely, wasted, and desolately quiet night,
as you screamed out tragic human wrongs, and of everyone’s plight,

‘bobby jean’ spoke to me,
of that girl down the street,
glimpses of whom, we as innocents would furtively meet,

and ‘the river’ that flowed through my ever-barren heart,
led me down further roads of thunder,
when slowly i finally learnt that the hardest part was fighting on,

and never to surrender,
to the hard-luck dreams that were born to run,
while i danced in the dark,
with memories vivid and stark,

even as i whined like that dog who for forever lost his howling bark,
and then a ‘human touch’ came along,
and ‘better days’ seemed real, not just words in a song,

and still you sang and swayed and spoke straight into my unseeing eyes,

as gardens of secrets were opened, and as your fist punched the skies,

in an anger that i too felt and in whose cauldron i too burned,
as we saw murder get incorporated, while on its wobbly axis, our fragile world apathetically turned,

and then suddenly i was told that i was all grown up,
working on a highway of scattered ideals,
and absolving myself by sprinkling some coins in a waiting cup,

well, after all these years of walking along so many a thorny road,

with an armour of your verse covering me, even as i hear them taunt me and even as they continue to goad,

but now i can feel myself fading away, into the bleakness of this coming night,

just like the ghost of that old tom joad.

FOR BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN

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