everyday i borrowed a feather
from the morning bird
placed it beside your coffee cup
yet, you could not make wings out of them
today, only void fills our spaces.
every thought belongs to the fragrance
of the yellow-white blossom in my vase
every gaze to its feminine grace
nights only find the scent of love
in the interlude of dreams
i shall never sell the stars again.
like every absence
spells the continuityof your presence
on the bank of the
the widow in white
forgives an evil inflicted on her
with each counted rosary-bead
the count continues, endless.
the 367th star died today
eyes watch the silver orgy
of the night sky
the moon continues to remain
my fidel bedmate.
(inspired by one of Kunal's lines)
timeless hurt absorbs
Hidden truths of life
Metaphors of aloneness.
night goes to sleep
dawn throws its doors open
to the radiance
of a thousand suns
spring dreams fulfilled.
“sun is the face of god
so is the moon at night”
history shall remember the poet
for the legacy of