Mind, The Mother Of All Mess- Ii Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Let me love whatso season in passage,
And dream of no soothingly sweet winter
At the height of a sweltering summer,
A fond novel is read-but page by page,
Let me not mix in season's air my mood,
But cherish its flowers and fruits so good.

‘Tis winter's chill that the spring is pleasant,
Mind's like a wild horse fleeting spot to spot,
Wanting it warm in cold, cold when 'tis hot;
Thank hot sun that rains are not reluctant;
And failure that future success tastes sweet,
Adversity, that better times we greet.

No season's born better than another,
Things are good nor bad, mind is their mother.
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Sonnets | 07.03.06 |