Seen through your reflections-
Of the time spent together,
The distance in our hearts,
Fills our mind.
Longing for your sight,
It fills again with hope.
Do you really had to leave?
As time flies,
With it your essence becomes stronger
And leaves with it-
a sweet smell of longing.
Would you promise me,
Not to leave alone.
If only I could forget your existence,
But how can I forget our togetherness?
Leave me a place unknown,
where i can be my own,
Unseen and unheard,
moonlight and starry sky and chirping birds.
Lie down to those kaleidoscopic views,
peeking through the moist half open darkness –
of the rustling leaves,
Like a filter,
In your dreamy life.
with four of us for strength,
towards shared joys and pain,
destination is not the end,
It is the mosaic of our life on the road
as if the roots i had left behind,
suddenly cried out to come back again,
and i stopped – wondering
whether it’s worth to return
or lie down wounded by the wandering scent!
On the edge of the leaf
Transforms magically to dew,
When pushed to the extreme.
Clinging to its dear life,
To save it’s existence
From the invisible force,
Calling the wind for truce.
The forces within our inner self,
Struggling to stay afloat
Against the constant hammering,
Of the reality of the day
What is that keeps it going?
Making it strong with every blow
Is it the desire to resist,
Or the purity of its being.
Seasons change and with it,
Takes away the last memories
Did the dew really exist?
Or was it your mind playing games.
No way to know,
No way to unknow
The sweet taste of the droplets,
Lingers on till eternity.
Her rounded eyes,
piercing through your existence..
The dreams that permeates,
Unspoken but seen without filter
The smile on her face,
She makes it so easy,
to love your existence.
Tree of life,
Burdened by the numerous birds hanging onto it.
Precariously but with unending noise of expectations.
You try to cling to your roots with all its might,
Soak in all that you can from the roots to grow.
or to stop yourself from dying.
All your adult life,
Worrying about the next season. Next wave of monsoon.
To obliterate the parch gloom of survival. Unending harshness of sunlight.
Until that one day,
the rainy season never arrives.
And in the expectation of your belief, you die.
Lonely, Slow death.
The birds have moved on to the greener tree far away.
Far away without any hint of the struggle endured.