Little drops of water
Descend from above.
The nimbus in the sky,
Of dust and dreams,
From everlasting stars-
Make up the ocean
That bring life:
To you and to me and to the world at large.

A universal message of Peace.

Two eyes shine-
Two milky moons.
Two words rhyme-
Two divine boons.
Two hearts beat-
Two simple tunes.

I encountered a fading moment,
In the sparkling eyes of a lady.
The gamble to express my love,
At the behest of my feelings,
Was like the evanescing tail-
Of a nugatory shooting star;
Dead in the dead of the dark.

My verses whispered in the past,
In the dreams of a dead poet.
The effort to pen my thought,
At the beat of unusual events,
Was like awaiting for dreams-
In the purposeless slumber,
And the tumultuous din of day.

But your words are my symphonies-
And in your company is my epiphany.

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.