Not of any divine thoughts,
Or of some disruptive reports,
Not of high tales of morals,
Or of those words of import.
These are meagrely of those-
affairs that seem arbitrary.
I write of the many things-
scattered in the ordinary.

There are wondrous beauties-
In the wisps and curls of smoke,
That escape the evening's tea.
And in the weird lingering smells,
That call to morns from childhood.
Aye, there is solace in the news-
That the morning papers convey,
And also in the harsh routine of the day.

In the humble love of a spouse,
And the stern faces in the crowd,
Are those elaborate stories that tell:
The musings of a cause untold.
And on this premise of thought,
Like how flowers beckon to bees,
Spreads a meadow of a certain-
Fulfillment nurtured by chaos.

So, what with those chores,
That do not end with death!
And what with those odd things
That are strewn around like stars!
The daily battles with trifles,
And the woes for 'morrow!
Amidst these stultifying hours,
Lie the true secrets of happy living.

So, with no image nor compare-
'tis verse describes the ordinary with care.

What a miracle spins off the eyes,
Of a master capturer of colours!
For his harlot is the dancing lights-
Of a happy day's golden hours.
What with these attributing sounds-
Of a furiously futile attempt at beauty?
For what a line of poetry gets to stir-
Is foolish beside the language of images.
Words are arch enemies of colours,
Shining vibrantly on a lazy afternoon-
And of the beauty that lies in the sight-
Of the night sky with a cloudless moon.
No poem can ever stake a claim-
Of ever making hearts skip a beat
Or goosebumps riling on the necks,
As portraits of women with rosy cheeks.
If the poet sees what the sun cannot
And the best words need inspiration,
Let this be a reminder to all your faculties
That a picture is worth a thousand words.

Trudged by the demons of old,
Seared by the lashings of time,
Yes, I am crying out of pain-
And these tears are mine.
Diamonds mined in the tunnels of thought-
Of those memories that ought not be talked about,
A burdened mind is soul-steered
As I cry an ocean of tears.

And my eyes run dry before my memories of you fade away.

Of the best memories we oft overlook
Are the depth of the experiences felt.
For what the surface offers in a day,
Are rippled by the torments within.
Like the beady eyes of an upset lover,
Or the stoic silence of seers in seclusion.
Whence do thoughts get expression?
And where do rivers find solace?
Whence does light of cognition germinate?
And where do unspoken desires die?
Whence do the notes of music resound?
And how do two lovers find their paradise?
These are but words as bubbles on water,
And these are humble attempts at answers.
As thoughts are expressed from depths of truth,
The rivers find solace in the depths of oceans.
As Light germinates from the depths of darkness,
The darkest desires die in the depth of commitments.
As the notes of music resound from the depths of passion,
Lovers find paradise in the ties of trust.

A girl must eat.
No, a girl must hog like a ravenous vulture.
A wretched beast from within, she must devour with grace.

Like the turbulent sea eats away at the shore.

Forged out of stardust and shines,
Your eyes peep into the depths of my soul-
Threatening to steal my beating heart-
They are conquerors from the kingdom of love.