You worship my river with empty and folded hands like a divine altar,
You turn on your lamps and let them drift on the river.
You are singing hymns asking for your salvation,
During this, you are the one who suffocate's my creation,
My River quench thrist as nector in your throat,
On other hand you throw your garbage into my throat.
You worship my river as a goddess,
But still treating her like a sewer as your success.
Can you not see the suffocating creatures in the river?
It is carelessness my dear child; it is the foam of my suffocating lungs.
How can you demand a blessing from a mother whom you are killing?
You bow before stone idols, offering them flowers and incense,
Yet you slaughter the living gods that walk beside you.
The tiger, who has the pattern of the night and fire on its body,
The elephant, who has the earth's memory with him,
The little sparrow, whose song was your morning wake-up call.
Where are they now?
You have exchanged their lives:
for your trinkets, ivory, leather, nonveg cusine and greed.
They look at me with eyes full of ancient sorrow and pain,
asking: "Mother, why does your most beloved child want us dead?"
And I have no answer but shock and silence.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 8:33 AM UTC
My Dearest Son, I am writing to you from the riverbeds of sand,
where water used to caress the shore, but now fire consumes the land,
Are you able to remember the time before your heart turned to stone?
When my soil was the only playground that you ever knew?
You were sleeping under the shade of the green trees, a palace pure and deep,
Before the walls of brick and steel made you to modern sleep.
I was your first and truest home, the ***** where you would lie,
Before the humming cooling-vents shut out the open sky.
I was the mother feeding you with grain from my goldern muddy veins,
I manufactured the cotton for the clothes that kept you from the cold, rain and pains.
I cooled you with a thousand leaves to beat off the summer heat,
I gave you life to breathe in before your heart could beat.
Though now, when I look at you, my son, I see a stranger’s face,
You walk around with pride but without love inside this holy place.
I sense the stabbing even in my roots when the blade is close,
The metal transition goes all the way down and the silence of scare arose.
The cutting of trees in the forest far is not only a sound of work,
It is the breaking of my bone with a merciless and brutal ****
You call it "timber" for your trade, a "resource" to be sold,
I call it my own dear arm, a story to be told.
I call it the brain that used to be mine, now it is cut down on the floor,
A house changed to heap of stones, a past that will not be anymore.
You ***** your buildings of glass that reach the sky but are thin,
Yet still you sever the roots of the trees always need to overcome sin.
And when the earth starts to shake beneath your heavy steps,
Do not take it as my wrath, or my anger showing deaths.
It is the flesh that is giving way, the tears of the falling rain,
It is not revenge, my son, it is my trembling through pain.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 8:28 AM UTC
Man's life is like an incredibly delicate bubble,
trembling quietly under a never-ending gamble.
He goes up in cheer, he drops in dispair,
he seeks for meaning with a silent prayer.
The ocean tides do this to him: pull him under, then lift him to the flight,
he breaks during the daylight, only to gather by the darkness of the night.
A flicker, a whisper, a fragment of a song,
he is an existence that spans the times, both frail and strong.
At dawn behind the old house when the shadows creep,
A plant, just like a man, was bowed and woke up from its sleep.
The birds came to tell it of the mountains and the skies,
From faraway valleys, as dreams are destined to rise.
The plant overheard the songs and the breeze,
it suffered for the sun, it stretched without feeling unease.
It threw itself at the sky with a quivering cry,
but fell into the dust under a weeping sky.
The road heard its lament, the stones felt its pain,
but deep in the ***** clay, little roots would remain.
The broken ones still talked for rain and for warmth hold,
For days never lived and for stories not told.
The snow on the mountains will give in to spring,
The valleys will become open, the lost birds will sing.
The seeds just like man's moments will grow from the muddy clay,
And they will see the dawn in the quiet of the day.
Walk gently through the garden where the shattered dreams are lying,
Where flowers are still closed and the dreams are never drying.
Do not break the silence, do not knock on the ground,
For dreams are like bits of fire that go out with a sound.
Still a man is on that never-ending river out of sight,
Still holding on to pieces of dreams that he once might have seen bright.
Still he can hear the footsteps that make the softer stone,
Although the fallen man is never alone.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
When devotion resides in our consciousness,
Hunger transforms into fast;
Fasting is regarded as a sacred act;
By which peace of the soul will ever last.
Water transforms into sweet nectar.
When touched by hands of devotion;
Quenching thirst with divine replete,
Then oceans transform into a potion.
Food ordained becomes an offering so pure,
Soul enjoys the feast adored.
Devotion fills each morsel for sure,
Holy aura is never ignored.
Journeys turn into pilgrimages real,
On the flame of devotion they glide;
The seekers touch the truth exceptional;
Spirituality transcends invidious stride.
Music becomes a devotional song
When sung by hearts most pure.
Echo in the heavens for long,
Here the souls towards god becomes allure.
House ordained becomes a temple pure;
Where devotion fills all the rooms;
Divine Echo in the corners lure,
Where grace forever looms.
Our Acts conducted by devotion,
That Make wonders to eyes behold,
Then Thoughts born of passion and faith,
For a greater helpful actions proceed with untold.
Devotion too as The alchemist of the spirit,
Transcends a person into the cleric.
As existence of soul is nurture suit of deeds by flourish,
When the diet of devotion inside us nourishes.
When devotion fills a person,
Humanity shines through,
Transcending mortal bounds,
To a higher state anew.
In this wonder tales of devotion,
World's transformation we see,
Into a sacred, a blessed vocation,
Where we all by perpetual cycle of time can truly be free.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 12:00 PM UTC
"The Quest of Love may be Pitiful, but it's never meaningless"
During a time in the land of dreams,
The Convoy stopped, or so it seems.
We are both lost in the twilight gleams.
Where did you go, in the midst of streams?
A few fleeting moments, a glimmer of light,
After that, you disappeared from my sight.
Wait! Are our ways getting apart?
Did I abandon you right from the start?
Where are you, my bright light?
A lush wonderland or a forgotten dream?
You sparkle in a breeze of whispers,
Your absence felt like a perpetual river.
The travelers cleared out and moved on.
An empty place to which our hearts were attached,
Where are you now, my mind wandering?
Including unexplained memories.
You were an upbeat shadow.
Flowers blooming in the dead of night,
I held your hand with all my strength,
Your presence lasts longer and sparkles brightly.
In the same breath, Hello and goodbye!
You get lost on a journey to a certain death.
Where have we gone in this pitiful quest?
The sound disappears as we attempt to express ourselves.
We are forever looking for what was lost,
Our adoration fades like passing on coals.
Leaving us both as reminders.
Through Silence, we cannot disconnect.
Sorrow enters our souls,
The small gap where our love once walked.
To ever be perfect or to care?
When we chase what life has stolen?
When Passion turns to a remorseful sigh,
Then your memories cause tears to flow from my eyes.
Fear of our separation nightmares do I get,
Thinking of our love has gone, as our destiny's sure bet.
It's not possible to forget you,
Your scars are in my remembrance,
An innocent heart searches for intimacy in your picture's essence,
Still, it's the most lovely inclination towards you.
Neither your infatuation nor your affection,
As infatuation is so helpless,
That comes to anyone for a transient period,
That's why betrayal often happens.
Affection is the one who cannot agree with everyone,
It is done thoughtfully and with caution,
It has to be followed with trust,
That's why affection often fails everyone.
Oh, the beauty of your unrequited adoration,
Adoration! How melodious it is to hear!
It just happens, it is not done but given,
A way of reverence for someone to share.
In this Elegy of lovely agony,
Our dream has come to an end, confined in this worldly maze so phony.
We looked for each other in vain.
In the hope that we will find love once again.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 11:59 AM UTC
Some days just drift and pass me by,
Like someone wants to speak, but’s shy.
The words get lost, they slip away,
And all that’s left is quiet dismay.
I hide my sadness deep and pall,
Like treasures kept behind a wall.
Not to impress or make a show,
But just so no one has to know.
I look myself into the mirror sometimes,
And feel okay in little times.
The weight I carry fades a bit,
Just after this moment, I don’t quit.
Maybe I’m still here, not gone,
Maybe I still can hold on.
I think that maybe, in this place,
Someone staring at my silent face.
That moments of mine I can’t describe,
The emotions I feel stays always inside.
The fruit is ripe upon the tree,
The time had moved on, and so had me.
But still people throw their words like stones,
Even though I stay kind, though I’m alone.
When silence stays, it fills emotion layer,
It wraps around me everywhere.
It hums so loud, it mostly feels,
Like something inside me still heals.
Or maybe that’s just in my mind,
A hope I’ve left for me to find.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 11:43 AM UTC