I burned the bridge

waterfalls under brown bridge
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com


I burned the bridge,

For it led to the known station,

It leads me to containment,

It reassures and but it doesn’t satiates,

I still wanna walk a mile astray,


I burned the bridge,

It keeps me quiet,

It pacifies well.

The revolution inside,


I burned the bridge,

It’s too comfortable,

obstructing greatness,

The walked route,

It saves toil,

Takes away satisfaction,


I burned the bridge,

It gives what it wants,

It gives when it wants,

and I cannot receive,


I burned the bridge,

It wasn’t mine,

The bridge and me,

see across the ridge,

It reaches through me,

and I could reach through it,

But, of course,

I cut no deal with this bridge,


I will built my own,

From shrouded pensive molds of self,

It walks with me,

in me,


I need no bridge,

This path I know,

I must walk alone,

For all that paved path,

doesn’t lead,

doesn’t parch,


“I want to be loud,

I want to walk on thorns,

I want to smell the foul,

I rather be lost,

I rather foolishly chase,

than for this bridge to lead the way”



-Rupika Moitra




“I have been circling for a thousand years”- Rilke

It’s not the bread

Or the soup,

I can’t count it,

It’s never one

or four,

It’s not the pot,

Nor the grains in it,

It’s doesn’t serve the mind,

Nor exclusive to one soul,

It’s somewhere around the edge,

In an unfilled left place,

Should I be scared of fulfilment,

Where will it stay then?

I travel in between,

When I am lost,

I find it,

I travel in and out,

I know yet I don’t,

The pot doesn’t know who pours,

It quenches deep,

But how did it fill?

And when ‘out’, it pours,

The space,

it lets out freely,

It doesn’t hold,

In between self and higher,

Amidst suffering and surrender,

The space beholds

– Rupika Moitra


gray pathway surrounded by green tress
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

This transformation is picking every shrouds of sensitivity out of bones.

Ruthless and rude

Is it me,

There’s no moment to ask,

where’s the celebration for it,

There’s no moment for it,

Is there no right to ask,

The transformation is the price,

There’s a price to pay

There are gifts

but gifts without whistles

They are confounding to the mind,

The gifts of universe in kind,

There’s no defining moment,

There’s just the  path and the find…

Hey you, my friend

Hey you, my friend,

Let’s lift this trend,

Let’s raise your spirits high,

I have conquered shame,

I have conquered shame,

But yours is pulling mine,

It’s pulling and thrusting,

Trying to come back;

This gift of god,

You wash it off,

The once glistening skin has parched,

It wanted love, you wanted to part,

For you believed in farce,

Dark and Tan,

Fair and pale,

What’s your part?

You were gifted it,

Or rather loaned,

Now the question looms,

What will you do with it?

Will it define you?

Or will you define it?

Hey you, my friend,

Let’s pick up stride,

Let’s find the pride,

Let me see you shine,

Let self love that emanates through us,

Reach those who are deprived,

Hey you, my friend,

Smile and strive and look beyond hateful eyes,

Transmute that shame,

To forever remain gifted to remiss mouths and crass eyes;

Hey you, my friend,

Let’s meet again,

This time;

Long strides, head held high,

Singing a tune,

Glowing in self- assured light,

For no one else ‘defines”………

– Rupika Moitra

Surreal Moon

astronomy clouds dusk hands
Photo by Kaique Rocha on Pexels.com


In the wilderness of my mind, I always move

I always seek, I always want, I always behold,

Mesh of thoughts, dreams, visions and goals,

All to feel the essence,

glory of the moon;

It’s ever changing, it’s ever-reflecting,

The knowledge that is my own,

The more I wonder,

The more I try to grasp, the more I loose


Gasps in wonder, the dilemmas of soul,

Moon hides and seeks like my presence,

It let’s go so easily, all stories of its essence,

Then, it moves,

Like an era of time,

Then again, time stands still,


With stillness and pace,

It confounds the soul,

Glory is for none to behold;


I smile at it,

At those glimpses of wisdom,

A smile of eternity when love feels real,

An age of serenity, when all is surreal………..




Rupika Moitra




was this ‘GOLDEN PEACOCK’,

It’s innocence was held safely in lock and key,

It danced away,

Rain or no Rain,

To erase every wrinkle of worry,

It danced till dawn turns dusk,

It danced till all that was gathered lost its musk,

Every smile added to its golden crust,

Swelled feet, heavy-winged,

It returned each night,

Never winged,

Never cried,

For  how hard it tried;

Everyday the gathered , Gazed,

The peacock danced away for Praise,

The gold poured from the Skies,

Burdened, yet it surrendered to one up high,

One day, the air felt heavy,

Assumptions flayed minds,

The peacock danced hard to bring about smiles,

Pelted with stones, this time;

The gold on you, is our own,

They say, you dance to distract,

So you can -Extract

Injured, heart-broken, the peacock hides,

Cries for days, it couldn’t bring about smiles,

It still surrendered to the golden crust,

But asks, WHY??

In answer, It hears only rain,

Can’t stop the feet at the sound of thunder,

It dances again, to wash away its burden,


Golden Peacock dances only when destined,

When valued,

The gold of its skin shines in presence of blessed,

Praised or Unseen,

Only eyes meant for it- BEAMS;

It brushes away it’s care for praise,

Exchanged  for worth, prayers,

Clarity not Haze………

Rupika Moitra

Reverence and Toil

Man toiled for a world of bricks, stones and steel and is still toiling for the latest versions of gadgets. Man thumbs up technological advances of electromagnetic waves. He fills himself up with caffeine, smoke and fermented grapes or wheat. But, he actually sold to his peers what he loaned from nature and became self- proclaimed master of riches and named it ‘money’ The circus of owning and shopping- bringing a piece of Earth in another form. Is it that we forgotten the source and conscious is crawling in ways to reach nature.

Another man pray to them. He uses with care. He revers the nature but he believes not in his own toil. His breath are not for worldly games. He wakes and sleep with rocks as treasures to his bedside. He prays for to allievate the consciousness of race. He doesn’t indulge in pleasures of barters. He is rich inside but to most he’s poor.

The scales are unbalanced – we are craving for plants in soul, in our mouths and our homes. Every expansion is an extension of Earth and yet the man made world looks like an alien civilisation.

Garden, rivers, plants, bees, birds and animals in spite of doors, clothes, brick, carpets, television, cars. Developmental advances or insanity and conversions to robot. What is really the norm?

We were meant to balance our Reverence and Toil. We still seek to know where we came from and we yearn. Before, all meaning turns meaningless seek the source. We all will return to it.