I heard the church bells,
Blowing of the shells,
Words of the azaan.
Read testaments of bible,
Plenty of those dohas,
Verses of quraan.
When notes of your music,
Left me spell bound.
When these eyes were closed,
When my head touched the ground.
You were there by my side,
I could feel you around.
In every shrine I found,
You in every being,
Every corner, word, sound.
While joining hands in a temple,
While chanting the word ‘om’,
Its was you under the cross.
Its was you under the dome.
I saw you shining bright,
In a candle’s light.
In all three colours,
Saffron ,green and white.
When a life starts,
Or when some one dies.
I see no religion in their smiles.
I hear no religion in their cries.
My father if everywhere,
Your presence is the same.
Then why these people go against you.
That too by your name.
The days have started growing dimmer,
We need a Jesus once again.
Now tears can feed a river,
We need a Buddha once again.
Men with eyes cannot see,
We need a Nanak once again .
To show the world what’s unity,
We need a Mohammad once again.
Another Mahabharata is to be fought,
We need a Krishna once again.
Not ten but a million heads he has got,
We need a Rama once again.
Fall on the dry earth,
As drops of rain.
Tell me my candles,
Didn’t melt in vain.
We need a prophet once again.
We need a prophet once again.

– Samarth Sharma




I am in this desert of illusions,
Where everything deceives.
Gathered around by slaves,
Of irrational beliefs.
They don’t let me fly,
With these chains around me.
But their walls are not enough,
To limit my mind, so wild and free.
‘Son of the blue’ is what I am,
I was born with these wings.
But they say they don’t know,
Any such things.
Only falsehood floats,
In their ocean of lies.
While truth sleeps deep in bed,
Limply, with closed eyes.
In their forest of concrete,
The art to survive,
Is to kill someone else,
And yourself be alive.
But I will find my way out,
Out from their maze.
From their labyrinth of time,
With such puzzling ways.
In this mist of false notions,
I look for reason’s light.
Yes, I am that black drop,
In their sea of white.
My rusty lungs,
My dusty lungs,
But unlike rest of them,
My breath thirsty lungs.
Craving for some air,
Dying for some sky.
Want to breathe in some clouds,
As I pass by.
My artist mind,
This anarchist mind,
And as they call it,
‘The darkest mind’
Goes after things,
To which they are blind.
Separates me from my men,
Separates me from my kind.
I don’t need their religion.
I don’t need their gods.
Not even their fuzzy vision.
I am one of the odds.
I don’t need their culture.
I don’t need their traits.
I just want to open,
Their old rigid gates.
Been locked from ages.
Been locked from dates.
The gates behind which
The real wisdom waits.
With my heart soaked in wrath
And my iron veins.
I’ll break through their grip
And melt off these chains.
It runs along my blood,
It shines in my eyes.
It wanders in my brain,
My throat even cries.
‘Freedom’ is what it is called,
Still looking for where it lies.

-Samarth Sharma