So, with her tender smile
She has requested me then
Not to send her anymore
My signatures of love
With those last words she left
Like the last train of the day
Infront, only the empty tracks…
Sleeping naked in deep slumber
Perhaps waiting for the sound
Of the fast approaching wheels
Singing the melody of the speed
Like my wish to win her heart
Yet here I am alone with myself
At the dead end of the night
Only her last words echoing around
Vibrating through the crumbling soul…
1st December’ 2019
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 1:57 PM UTC
During the monsoon, all my raindrops drag me
Towards the fast lane of memories.
Taking with all the skies and the stretched blues.
Feeling not like the dead warriors
But the first saint under the young sun.
One day when we were dancing together
Hovering on the untold secrets of the battle fields
All the dead pawns of world history
From the past to the present
Mimicked us under the tone.
I have seen the first smile of the antithesis of God.
Not only the everyday hypothesis lies
But all the dead philosophies under the religious cult
Fooled us every time we thought
We have found Him.
Talking about the story of love all my raindrops
One day came to me.
We were so proud of each other
Touching the pride of faith;
Yet all the dead souls of cathedrals
Mimicked us underneath.
And then I have seen the first smile
Of the whispering secretes of life
Drawing the first sketch of the antithesis of God,
During our everyday monsoon.
27th April 2014
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 12:13 PM UTC
During the periods of stipulated flashbacks
Memories may not always be smooth or soothing
The pages of the wary calendars
Under the color of my melancholy ink
May not forget nor forgive the pain
Yet I would love to be alone again.
My heart will never burst into laughter
Nor will cry in rain
Flashbacks of the scenes may not survive
With all the clocks in my hand,
For they are the silent warriors
Dead, but fought in vain.
The next day is always so crucial
Fighting against all the odds
Yet the motion seldom walks along
With our dreams or feel at home in accord.
If you think you win or it is a defeat for me,
All the days are numb, crying silently
Morning brings nothing but wary nights
Passions grow old from everyday fights,
Let me put it straight for ages to come;
Not time but moments may matter to some.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 1:35 PM UTC
THE BIRTH
NilavroNill
I am the only one, all alone
With none to be substituted.
I am the solace of the sufferers
Everywhere around everything.
I know the secret numbers
To unlock the mind.
I know the dark chamber
Of the soul in eternity.
I overwhelmed the waves of
Our history, surviving along
The time scale of nuisance
Standing ***** over the debris
Of beliefs from the time past
To the time future.
Circling Around all the lost hopes.
For I alone know the secret.
Beneath the surface reality
And above the virtual designs
Of hopes and aspirations.
Of anguish and humiliation.
I'm the sole witness from the beginning-
Of the story to the never ending
Rituals of Eternity, day in and
Day out. All around the inside.
Stars will fade out.
Time will Pass.
Life will stop crying for-
The first breath of the fresh- Dawn. Yet I will be there.
For you, for you alone in a
Lonely world of peace and trust.
For the poetry of love-
Just in two eyes. For my birth!
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
THE DEEP SECRET
NilavroNill
she was talking in undertone
like the old hermits of the
Buddhist Monastery
not to prove any algorithm
or to put forward hypothesis
of social revolution
she was there with her
gentle smile and her bare arms
moving like gentle breeze
not like the smiling bureaucrats
shaking the cold hands
before the secret deals
she was looking around
along the time scale of eternity
like the twinkling stars
from the distant galaxies
around the summer nights;
serene, poised like the Pacific
her looks were quite different
from the performers
playing with the power
behind the closed doors
after the success of
summit meetings here and there
she was there engrossed in
deep collaboration with
the forthcoming embryos
like the painter over her canvas
playing with all the colours
to make one of her own
one without any blood spot
one without any inflicted pain
one without any human grief
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC