A year ahead, a year passed by,
The doors are still opened, and the ponds are still dry,
You did say you loved me, you did say goodbye,
Our irrevocable commitments proved promises are a lie.

Its the night recalling the showers in the springs,
And the weekend waltz to the attuned strings,
You revolve around me today, with your name engraved within,
Stop hiding from me, so long where have you been?

But for a second i believed..
As the gush of wind whispered your name,
The clock is ticking beside our picture frame,
You're flowing like the river,in your gown , camouflaging blue,
Lined up a lot of work, I still got seconds for you.

She is the lady on the road.

She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.

She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.

She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.

She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.

She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.

She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.

The velvet cover aroused a cringe inside,
With the touch to the diary with his wrinkled hand,
And the stolid shiver began to subside,
Pouring grin over his face, as the pages were scanned.

He stared at the words, turning the pages leisurely,
Every line he read, triggered  mild sentiments,
Not very severe but gentle and silly,
Soothing and abating the repressed resentments.

The diary delineated the stories behind each verse,
With hues of despair and projections of curse,
Depicting doleful goodbyes and cheerful handshakes,
All of them crushing and sinking into the filthy lakes.

Hopping from one stanza to another,
He slowed down his pace as he moved further,
Like the dormancy of his brain and the moments gray,
The lines reminded him of his birthday.

"I'm a poem, you'd liked to take a glance at,
I'm candle you will blow, I'm the feather on your hat,
I'm the words in your veins, I'm the verses you make,
I'm the lyrics on your lips,  I'm the name on your birthday cake."