A pretty little flower, with dew drops adorned,
Long and silky petals, with nectar you glowed,
But quite far to find, quite delicate to hold,
But worth every sweat, worth more than gold.
~A flower I am? Too delicate too I see,
But a troupe so used, that poets use for free,
Or perhaps you've got a garden~- oh God please
~Better write to them, you other beauties?~
Oh my my, why be so angry?
Only God might compare with your beauty for me,
Hello do you hear? Puffed up I see,
In vacant anger, or in love might that be?
~What anger? What love? Why should I be?~
Your voice deceives you, composed wannabe,
~Nope, don't you say a word, not one thing,~
What about the words, love you darling?
Wonder who calls you when you so despair,
And wonder who calls you and asks what you wear,
Your alarm at times, and your confidee, if I may,
Alas, I am but not allowed to say...
But speak I will, for then you'd understand,
Of how I cherish, every moment we have spent,
And how I wait for every message you send,
Yet, my words though innocent do offend.
But I've seen you enough to know your ways,
Of how much you love to hear me pray,
And confess my love, again and again,
Be rest assured it will never wane...
For many promises are yet to be made,
And yet many promises yet to be kept,
Like the kiss to be shared on the day we meet,
And the lovely walk with both hands held...
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC
Green hills crowned with hazy clouds under playful skies,
A great river that breathes life of many flavours bright,
Forests thick with striped lords and tusked giants,
And people with so many faces and colours to find.
A land where the Spring sings a melody of the Gods,
And the land undresses from its frosty gown to adorn,
A pretty dress of silk and gold, woven with stories old,
Of witches and demons, and many kings bold.
But the Summer does bring down fire and rain,
When the river swells fat with mermen and mermaids,
When wet boots rumble under the thunder God's name,
And tree lords duel men over juicy sugarcanes.
The Winter then makes the land quite lazy and fat,
When the bamboo is stuffed with new harvest ripe,
And fatter ducks squabble over bowls of gourd soup,
And many gossips are shared over fire and food.
Amidst the chaos, the people wear their masks,
A mask for everything, each of them do bear,
A mask of festivals red and white, a mask to mourn black,
A mask of gold to play Gods and kings, a mask to sit back.
And so Assam thrives, among monkeys and floods,
Where Bihu makes maidens to come out in the sun,
And ancient people complain of the many generations to come,
But these quarrels are what makes this place so fun.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 3:57 PM UTC
A quiet drizzle late at night, paints narrow streaks in the windowpanes,
A faint breeze among the leaves, weaves riddles in the air,
A lonely building by a busy road finds some time to sleep,
A lonely lamp by its side, tries to keep the shadows inside.
Every little thing plays a little role in this little symphony of nature,
But only when the eyes look at the picture at large, does it reveal,
A greater beauty borne of this fleeting harmony, in this quiet corner,
Divine yet ephemeral, vast yet confined, a moment of tranquility here to find.
For new worlds are found in the shallow puddles where rain dances in the light,
And new stars are born out of tiny beads on youthful leaves, twinkling and smiling,
Yet an ethereal melody does reach the ears, of the wind's flute and the crickets' hymns,
And a thought of peace does echo in the mind. A little thought to recall, a little thought to remind...
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 3:35 AM UTC
A cool breeze to break the dust of day,
A pleasant rustle of the leaves,
As the sun finally finds a time to rest,
A time to shed off some heat.
But mercy is found as nature answers,
And clouds gather with drums,
A beautiful flash blinds the city lights,
As the first drizzle falls.
A lonely man finds himself at a little loss,
For he is armed with nothing but clothes,
But he is worried not, for this it reminds him,
Of the lady he loves.
Then the wind teases him more as he walks,
Rocks the bough letting purple flowers fall,
But he smiles knowing, ruffles his wet hair,
As the road takes him a distance fair.
The choir of heaven soon assembles at large,
As he quickens his pace to home,
He regrets not a bit for his wet socks,
But a silent wish in his mind does flow,
Only if she was there to hold his hand,
Only if a kiss could be shared,
Under the grace of heaven,
A sight so divine, so fair.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 3:07 PM UTC
A feeble rose laden in a bouquet of thorns,
A sweet smell rose, a quiescent ephemeral.
The suitors it did invite, but inundated, lost,
Lost, in a dull sycophancy, of faces behind a mask.
The silent cry felt unheard, in suffocating flattery,
But a hand did rise, amidst thorns that bled,
A hand that blessed it in a streak of its hue,
A hand that when held made the shy flower bloom.
The mangaka's 'hana' had found her love,
But intrigues me much, not the story after,
For much ink has been put, much ink shall follow,
But for the transient innocence, my ink shall flow.
Mar 15
Mar 15, 2026 at 5:47 PM UTC
Feeling hungry, I head for a walk,
A walk to the lovely night canteen,
A nice fried egg, a side of chicken rice,
No wonder my belly screams "not so lean".
But this is fine, for the rumbling's gone,
And my face makes a face for 'happy happy time'.
Then a visitor arrives with a greeting warm,
Grab a drink, not alcoholic but of lime.
Then I bid farewell for sleep does call,
After a tiring week spent in many exam halls,
With a coke in hand, the other in pocket,
Back on the road, no tripping, no fall.
But an empty road does call for thought,
Of words strung together, a ritual of sort,
My pace does slow, but it is fine after all,
The beauty of the night is the reward I have got.
Companied by the sound of my slow dragging feet,
The eyes dart from sleeping walls to creaking twigs,
A light breeze makes the wary trees whisper,
Of the roads I have tread, and of the many coming leagues.
Thoughts churn under the dim street lights,
Of the girl who once asked to hold hands together,
And walk in the silent embrace of the night,
But far she is and has been since forever.
With lonely thought, the troll ends his stroll,
Wash my face once, in the mirror set my gaze,
Break it with a lifeless smirk, a humourless face,
Then retire to my room, dark are the ways.
But some words were brewn, and a pen unscrews,
A disaster of a poem my fingers spew,
But emotions they do carry, though very coarse,
For such emotions thrive best, in moments few.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 11:05 AM UTC
Strolling through a corridor late at night,
The tired eyes catch a fleeting speck of light,
No sight to be seen, no steps to be heard,
A time so ripe, it’s a time for a word.
For a question lingers deep in the mind,
Of what he now is, a beast of some kind?
For doubt blurs his vision, fear grips his mind.
Are his good deeds an excuse for his crimes?
For a hand of one lost he brought to light,
Shared his love, his time, she made his life bright,
But his mind grew weary, his feelings did fade,
His hand slipped, for his heart his mind betrayed.
For hands if held, feels a lie to his self,
But left to slip ’way, betrayal it felt,
What do his eyes see, a question that haunts,
A plaything of his, to satisfy pride?
For the strings are taut, the mind in turmoil,
The fine image of self, brought slow to nought.
His face a facade, his acts a charade,
In the silent corridor, a mirror cracks.
Jan 27
Jan 27, 2026 at 3:33 PM UTC
A dotted night, a shade of depth,
Dark trees with naked limbs, the moon breaks,
The wind chooses victims, churns blood to ice,
Tempest to bear, the cracked road lies.
A timid flower, shallow corner to hide,
Purple as royal, decaying self as pride,
A heavy boot befalls, the royal in rags,
Dirt discriminates not, another trophy bags.
The traveler sings no melody, a quiet horror,
Ruthless the road yet, ruthless the road be for.
But traverse he will, through broken bones,
A promise to keep, through silent groans.
For a hand awaits, a warmth to heal,
Embrace for those cracked lips to feel,
Longing there is, in the beauty of her eyes,
Longing there is, in his muffled cries.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 4:46 PM UTC
The setting sun casts its last strength into the world,
Through the trees, through the leaves,
Painting a golden hue.
End of a day, with such a departure divine,
Painting a piece of heaven,
Here on earth.
The last rays of gold escape through his fingers,
As he holds up his palm wide,
Night is nigh.
But next day shall arise a sun even grander,
For those who wish to see,
For those who wish to seek,
For those who wish to live.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 10:16 AM UTC
The moon seems pretty fat and round tonight,
Last time I checked, it was quite thin and light.
Its life may be going good with no fights,
Hence so plump, with a glow so bright.
I wonder what it stores in its larder great,
Will there be apples, berries and *** of late,
Or pies and cakes, wonder whose hands make,
Or food from other worlds, none speculate?
Good for you, o moon with no care,
So good a life you got, perched up there,
While we toil around, with rest quite rare,
While you eat cookies, round and fair.
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 4:47 PM UTC