And if the best poems are written by squeezing the heart,
And by dipping the pen in the ink of agony,

Maybe, I've not written mine yet.

And I looked inside that well today,
I saw a hologram of water.
Beneath which I heard the deafening silence.
The silence, which screamed too loudly to be heard.
I looked around and I saw,
Scarlet Gangas flowing from every body that was thrashed.
I saw a mother, holding her son,
Tight enough to suffocate him,
Strong enough to let no bullet touch him.
I saw tiny hands shielding their father,
Hoping,
Maybe,
Just maybe,
They could save him.
I saw two hands entangled,
Even death applauded for love before wrapping it.
I saw them covering each other
Praying,
Maybe,
Just maybe,
Someone could save them.
But their Gods were sleeping,
And now they are.
I looked inside that well again,
And I saw nothing but opaque water,
Beneath which I heard nothing but the deafening silence.
I looked around and I saw,
Flower bed on the soil,
Paying tribute to the mourning place.

She was like the moon,
      They wrote 'about' her not 'for' her.

I met a boy today,
at the end of the road.
A young one, somewhere between 9 or 10.
He looked at me with his eyes on the ground.
"Where can I find Love?" He questioned.

I did not answer him.
Because I could not.
In the library, I go daily
I find books of genres
one such is 'love'.

But the books are not different than 'Horror'.
The 'horror' covers are black,
absorbing everything I tell,
The "love' covers are white,
reflecting everything I hear.

I went back with a dictionary
and a book of all the love letters
that were never written.

I saw him again
at the end of the road.
This time he looked away from me
while looking into my eyes.

I answered him,
because I thought I could.
'In the petals of red roses,
in the knelt proposes,
in the thumbed love letters.
in the woollen sweaters.
in the candlelight dinner
in the lines that win her
in the dark sunsets
in Romeo and Juliet.
in the surprise gifts
in the heartbeat that lifts,
You, can find love.'

I went home proud,
for I knew, he will find love now.

Eternities and forevers later,
I met a man today,
at the beginning of the road.
An old one, somewhere between 90 or 100.
He looked at me with his eyes staring inside mine.

'In the thorns that *****,
in the words that trick,
in the letters never sent
in the people who went
in the handmade food,
in the sceneries you never viewed
in the lost sunrise
in her eyes and lies
in the gift wrappers never thrown,
in the hearts that have become stone.
I, found love', he finally replied.

I went home proud,
for I knew he found love now.

And all the thorns that have ever pricked,
were from all those roses to which I questioned playfully
Whether you 'loved' me or not...

Even when you were with me,
You searched for her.
Even when you called my name,
You spelt her syllables.

I knew he was in love,
When he wrote poems about the dark-spot of the moon.