kavita nam hai gyan ka ise
likhne wale gyani unka beta bane kavi
ye hai uski nadani dhor caharane
wale bhasah ke ras ko kya jane
aise kavi to kala akshar bhais
barabar maane aise kavi duboye lutiya
kavita likhne walo ki
aise kavi duboye lutiya

kavita likhne walo ki nai kalpana gai bhad me
dhum machi naksalo ki dhor chalane walo ki
gyan prabhu ki dain hai nahi kisi ki ye jahgir
jag ko budhi daine wala dekhe na
garib amir ramayan se badh kar acha
or nahi koi naik uske likhne
wale daku walmiki ko dekh
jat pat na puche koi kavita
likhne walo ki jat pat na puche koi kavita
likhne walo ki mehfil chod
bani ye dasi bojh uthane gwalo ki
kavita likhne walo ki

badha kavi hai kahi ka to ek
bat bata jagat me pehle pehail pehla
chand kisne likha sawal itna bada hai
jawab chota sa jagat vo chand hai
jagdish ne ise ikha banaya jisne ye
sansar uska rup hai kya kisi ne aaj
talak usko ankh se dekha
hawa nazar nahi aati hawa
ka rup hai jo kuch nazar me hai
parmatma ka rup to hai

hai muh chota or bat badi
zara jawab do hai din bada ya
rat badi bhla ye puchi
hai tumne kaha ki bat badi
kabhi ke din hai bade or kabhi
ki rat badi tumhari bat me
kavita ka ras nahi aya jawab
mane jo socha tha vo nahi aya
hai muh chota or bat badi
hai din garib ka dhanwan ki hai rat badi

A poem is wisdom's child, they say,
Born of the wise, the learned's sway.
But those who pen it, foolish play,
Like herdsmen lost, who pave the way
For language's nectar, taste unknown.
Such poets deem the words they've sown
As blackest ink to beasts are shown.
They drown the craft, the verse's art,
These scribblers tear the world apart.
They drown the craft.

New visions, once so bright and bold,
Are cast aside, the story told
Of rebels' rise, a herder's hold.
Knowledge is God's, a gift of grace,
No mortal's right, no time or space
Can claim its wealth, its holy place.
The giver sees no favored face,
No rich, no poor, in life's long race.
The Ramayana, a sacred rhyme,
Above all others, stands sublime.
Yet, its creator, a bandit's deed,
From him we learn, we plant the seed.
Cast off your caste, your lineage,
For poets' hearts, on life's stage.
Cast off your caste, your lineage,
And leave behind the gathering,
To serve as maids, the shepherd's hand,
For poets' art, across the land.

If you are wise, the answer tell,
Who penned the first, the primal spell?
A simple truth, the world's own sound,
By Jagdish penned, the world is bound.
He shaped the earth, its form to see,
Has anyone ever truly seen,
The form of air, unseen, between?
The form of air, unseen, between.
But what we see, the soul's domain,
The form of God, we hope to gain.

Small mouths speak vast, profound decree,
Tell me, which is greater, day or free?
You ask a question, strange and deep,
Whose words of meaning never sleep.
At times the day, at times the night,
The poet's words, they lack the light.
The answer I received, it does not fit,
The vision I pursued, it does not sit.
Small mouths speak vast, profound decree,
The poor man's day, the wealthy's night.