I’ve been reminiscing all those faded memories,
Where your footprints reside,
And they lead me to the garden of cherries
A place, stashed away in my memory guide.

I flip through it’s pages every night
Hoping to relive the divine magic,
We felt, while our hands played under the moon-light
And waved at feelings which you thought, made you allergic.

Inking our fables down with blood
I had wanted the letters not to fade away
Unaware we were of the approaching flood,
Which would melt the guide’s pages like models of clay.

Every astray tear of yours
Was like a holy rill flowing through the cracks
On the book’s cover, decorated with dead flowers
And reeking of unburnt corpses, abandoned in shacks.

Our fates had drifted away too far into the dark,
Making retreat a mere joke.
A joke which Hangs on our bodies like dead bark,
That mocks my heart to have turned broke.

My palms keep fluttering over the guide,
Trying to connect with forgotten memories,
Trapped between the pages that like to hide
And bring back visions from the Garden of cherries.

She's crying for shelter from city lights,
her way was lost chasing the kites.
She doesn't deserve this mellow harshness,
her muted soul needs some love to harness.
She's shying away from the forbidden innocence,
her eyes beam with, while seeking guidance.

O! dear, doesn't she remember,
she's the Daughter of the Nature.

She had a smile that spread like wild fire,
melting hearts of beasts and gruesome liars.
She was a fawn in disguise, innocent and sweet,
knocking down obstacles with her mushy feet.
She also had her majestic, sparkling eyes,
trapping time in a bottle and  her crooked lies.

Why doesn't she remember ?
She's the Daughter of the Nature.

She still hides that girl in her conscience,
waiting for herself to crawl out of defiance.
She walks with the shadows of her past
thinking, her old-self acts like a mast.
She knows, culprit are her own people
but still lets them treat herself like a lost gamble.

One day she will surely remember,
she's the Daughter of the Nature.

Dumb Streets stroll along with brains of blitz
to an evening ritual of bathing with blood
where young smiles melt away and tears dry out,
guilty die and so do the ones who dare to doubt,
audience calls it the crowned fool’s supper
but our fool names it ‘Blooming of the Juniper’.

Dumb Streets poke their pride with ***** knives,
scoop their brains out for the queen of beehives
and surrender their soul for a single penny
which leads them to a war-zone surrounded by jinni.
The poor souls mustn’t retreat to the fool,
who’d treat them as his supper or a war-tool.

Dumb Streets fed-up, riot with sullen spirits,
they burn bridges and **** the fool’s puppets.
The supper gets heavy as the days go by,
our fool feasts on rioters who’ve sworn to die.
Soon the puppets disappear into thin air
and leave the palace for rioters to spare.

Dumb streets have our fool as their supper,
sink their shelters with wine and clutter,
but fail to notice uprising of another fool
who’d played leader of fish in the pool.
Shower mercy O! wise Fool upon your streets,
preach the dumb, who wonder what he eats.