Poems

Imagine a tiny flame that never quite learned to blaze just there to provide warmth, like the gentle morning light resting on weary rooftops. It's like laughter that escapes through cracked doors, or a child's innocent voice that doesn't know how to tell a lie. It's the essence of simplicity walking among us, not just a word, but like water effortlessly carving its path through stone, or air filling our lungs without a second thought. It's a voice that turned into a bridge a quiet, kind bridge spanning the gaps we've created between colors and names. It's like someone uttering the word love, and love reverberating back. Like someone saying love, and love coming back around. Like someone proclaiming love until even silence started to believe in it. It's like a tree standing tall against toxic winds, like a drum that beats solely for unity, like rain that falls on every face without picking sides. It's a soul that never performed only sowed seeds of gentleness in a world too quick to harden. Planting… planting… until hearts began to blossom without ever questioning who nurtured them. Like a flame fading into the unseen, like a sunset gently slipping behind the horizon, like a song that concludes but never truly departs. We say: to God we return but "return" feels too small a word for a soul that transformed into a sky. O land that holds the echo, O people who cherish the light, grieve like rivers grieve the rain not in absence, but in the memory of how deeply it once nourished you. And still still the warmth lingers, like a whisper in the ribs of time, like a gentle fire that simply refuses to extinguish.
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ये सफ़र जो आज तन्हा है, रहनुमा तेरी यादों में;
बेसबर हम अकेले हैं, कोई अख़बार नहीं तेरी।
तेरी यादें भी तन्हा हैं, मुकद्दर अश्क बहाता है;
मंजिलें चैन ढूंढती हैं, सफ़र भी खूब हंसता है।
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A seed of bitter takes its hold,
A story whispered, growing cold.
They say this anger, it must cease,
To find within, a quiet peace.
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From south they came, with seeds in hand,
Farmers to a new, cold land.
Five thousand years, a long time past,
Their roots now deep, forever fast.
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A Dutch girl, Margaretha named,
Lost fortune, life felt wrongly framed.
Married young, a soldier's wife,
In far lands, she knew hard strife.
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All about pneumatophores of the aerial kind,
Of thunderstorms and thicket salinity,
Of bolts from the sky, dark and cruel,
Of the high waves, overlapping each other,
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A LOOK-394

Let me depart
when still alive,
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Every Spring
We Rise
Trying to Bloom
Reaching For The Sun
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Spirit Dog

Was that your dog
I saw last night
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Little screens, a guiding light,
Tell us what is wrong and right.
Where to go, and what to see,
Controlled by apps, you and me.
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The little girls open's out the window
To see the sunshine late at night
Is it her Guardian Angel she wonder's
Or has mummy come back tonight
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Reflections —
on ambition and peace of mind,
forces poised against each other.
What is seen is not what is seen —
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