Stamp Of Life Poem by PRAVEEN KUMAR English Poems

All come and go like actors
And do bits in own sectors
On the huge stage of the life's play
And stamp themselves on time's clay.


Some inscribe by the life's thick milk
And drape their names in soft silk,
While many write by gory blood
And stamp wrath and hatred in red.


Confused scenes and acts make life
Of love, hate, friendship and strife,
Confused moves, emotions and intellects
Weave plots of abstract novel crafts.


Thrills, horrors, upheavals and tragedies,
Deep Passions, romance and comedies
Play side by side on the live stage
With play within play in unending maze.


Bonds are made, bonds are unmade,
Histrionics are in-between played
In blinding glare of the artificial light
While backstage is dark, still and silent.


Today he is king, tomorrow, plays villain,
Next day, he may play the role of a demon;
He is, simple he, while goes to side-wings,
And sheds false complexes of his role-plays.


All are almost the same inside,
All are almost the same inside,
But for the skill of playing a part,
While all go as per script and dim goes light.


This or that, or big or small,
They are all, unknown fate's call,
Whatever is there, take on that role,
What meets on road, act that all well.


Not what is played, but how it is played,
Marks the stamp of distinction;
Not how long is played, but how intense, played
Makes dints on the long histories of men.


While on the stage, all is bright and loud,
Talks, fights, actions and songs,
Ceaseless haste, nerve-wrecking sound,
All go dunny when curtain down wrings.


Some play their part, ignore all the rest,
Some follow story-line till the very end;
Role-play makes man, what part he played;
In pedetentous moves, it forms his mould.


Nothing loses on the open stage,
Nothing misses from the nature's gaze;
Everything is there at all the times
And adds to the endless evolution's boom.


Bonds of heart and the bridges of soul,
The feel of love's umblical chord,
Survive the open stage to the pitch-dark hole
Where roles are recast and plots are made.


An unseen bond binds time and place,
An unseen hand coordinates all;
It is not an unbound mad race,
But a mysterious game of who knows all.


It is how is human drama,
It is what makes human drama
Where backstage and front-stage, intermingled,
One out of sight, one, open on the ground