Everyone has a story, some untold, some are weaving.

The pond,
the lake,
and the little lotus,
Everyone has a story,
some untold, some are weaving.

these stories are real,
like us,
but, they never share us,
like we never share ours.

They play,
they love, and they get hurt,
they feel broken and fight for their survival.

The brave ashes

On the sore of a river,
beside the ponderous forest,
from the burning dry woods,
they were born.

They smell poignant,
a grief that expanded,
from the dead wood,
till they’re burned to charcoal.

The whirling of them,
with the smoke feels like,
milk centrifuged in churning,

The black smoke with white ashes.
they travelled with the air,
from plants to plants,
from trees to trees,
from land to waters,
from everywhere to nowhere.

Some of ‘em just stayed there,
with the burning wood,
they found peace with themselves,
others keep roving.


From green flesh,
to the brown wood,
and to the burning,
then to the ashes,
is a journey,
which the brave ashes
keeps living after dying,
so many lives,
so many times.

The clock on the lost wall

Right there,
on the wall of lost time,
sitting is a clock.
Looking through the eyes of time,
everything and everywhere.

There isn’t solace,
but a sadness that keeps getting deeper with time.
If you know and look into it,
you will find it hard to understand.

The petrichor,
the dusky smell of wooden trench,
used long back to make its body.
The rare collection of colors put into it.

Wind in its own acoustic comes to make him feel the lost time,
like a golden memory which cherishes us to laugh and cry at the same time.
It does seem like how the bread of memory pilled with lost time taste.
Maybe there is no other beauty glow like the time.
It keeps the beauty of dusk and dawn,
the sun and moon, the dark and the day, the world and I.

“The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!” | John Keats

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –
Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday – or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

source: Poetry Foundation


Books in Focus

Poem Excerpts : The drops of Fog

Writing on leaves,
the drops of fog
some sublime poetries,
of life & lies,
burning and dying,
true love in the eyes.

Read the full poem ‘The Drops of fog’ here.

The beauty of Life

These mountains, a solid architecture,
a life with the green canvas, all over it,
like a bold green flesh, raised by the sun,
the summers, winters and spring passing,
it stays still, never complaining, about anything.

In summers, Sun melts him, like fire vomiting dragon,
his little trees and plants die due to illness,
lack of water causes death to beloved animals,
he keeps mum, waiting for the spring.

Spring and rain, their arrival, bought in happiness,
a joy to the jungle, little animals get their veggies and water,
but never settled, they get lands slides, some trees die,
some animals die, the rain wipes out his tears,
waiting for winters, never complained.

Winters arrival, the blanket of huge snow,
the beauty tends to flow, from the bottom to the sky,
flawless and joyful, the earth becomes cold,
Small roots of small plants, can’t bear it,
Some homeless animals, buried inside the ice,
he cries and smiles,
but never complained.

Nurtured by nature, the strongest,
the wealthier mountain knows,
The beauty of life,
sun and moon, heat and cold,
life and death, death and life.


The drops of fog

Writing on leaves,
the drops of fog
some sublime poetries,
of life & lies,
burning and dying,
true love in the eyes.

Escaping from the arms of clouds,
falling to the surface of grounds,
it cools the heat all around.

Scattered onto the soil,
it asks for an another life.
a life of time, for a lifetime,
nothing it says, but denies.

A Life with Lenity

Whimpers in the maze of tough thoughts,
A life with lenity.
A thought of seeking coincidence,
With wondrous epiphany.

A morning that seeks night,
But couldn’t.
A night that seeks dawn,
But couldn’t.

It stays within,
And asks quietly,
Whether you’re,
what you are
or not??

When not heard,
It stays where it belongs,
Like a snail in its shell.

मृगतृष्णा

आग है, इक आग है,
जो दर्द की हुँकार है,
जलते जहाँ ग़म थे कभी,
अब जल रहें इंसान है ।।

न सोंचता कहाँ बढ़ रहा,
क्या कर इंसान है,
बस लालसा की आग में ही,
बन रहा हैवान है ।।

ख्वाबों की झूठी साज़िशों में
बढ़ रही जो तृष्णा है,
ये मेरे मन की तृष्णा है,
ये तेरे मन की तृष्णा है,
ये कैसे मृग की तृष्णा है ।।

First Love

The way she passed the bridge of my memory,
I lost my way out of the senses.
The lights of courage in me was diminished,
Flaunted by the winds of first love.

Her gaze of glitters stared at me,
Like she holds secrecy of wings,
A breath that dissolved in me,
felt like a fragrance of undiscovered life.

I hated being intimated my own thoughts,
But it does happen to me,
Like a life that was not the same ever since.

She could have seen me,
A glimpse of me to her,
Or a never-ending gaze,
Could be something there,
I must have done,
But that moment of love,
Is a love that loses to win.