The bandages would not heal a wound,
for the footprints burden her,

                                                       switch off the lights and find darkness,
                                                                       for the charcoal is already up,
do not cry, when Tom dies,
for you once threw the coffee cup,

                               No matter which ends you choose
                                        humanity is certain to lose.

maybe, a few branches were let off the trunk,
nevertheless, it was meant to be burned,

each day someone would die,
but the dying puppets on stage
must let the ink dry,

weave words, scribble stories,
times are tough, sweet and deep,

but I promise you,
there lies hope in between imageries,
there lies strength in between metaphors,

after millions of crumpled dreams,
trust the paper one more time,

let the ink dry.

When I tear apart,
I see a man,
my verses sit inside his heart,

it is better to stand still,
and not, to move along
with words of past,

the man I see would someday be my part,
and someday we would struggle
with our halves,

for I know nothing of his being,
for I fell in his arms
when your reflections were seen,

I move along,
I move along with you.

Life sneaks through parallel bars
awaiting awakenings; not of an embodiment
but of souls connecting you and me, strengthening bonds;
family and friends, it peeps through the windows
to admire common happenings yet uncommon;
butterflies skirting the waterfalls, undistinguished colors of
a rainbow, the silhouette of mountains shining in night foam,
refraining to die every season and  just die for once,
to understand the unfathomable beauty and magnificent
doings of nature, to build little by little of every moment
crossing by and not reserve chairs to sit paralyzed,
to hold and freeze dramatic awakenings of
summer of 1969.