These hours are not The Age of Trump, oh, no
Nor yet the age of McDonald’s arches
Turned upside down like pendant parts spilt from
The four-color process of a ******* mag

All time is God’s, and as a gift to you
May be employed in work and play as you
Think best in gratitude for all the light
That falls upon your acts, your arts, your loves

Whatever else, this is an age of you
In quest for the good, the beautiful, and
                                                        the true

An ant was roaming
May be, in search of mates
Creeping like a snail
As if desperate.
From one end to the other
It took almost two hours
Without any rest
Running with a great quest.
Perhaps, in the search of parents
Or may be children
Can be soul mate
Or someone for fun.
Another ant emerged from the woods Made a guess
Searching for her food
.....The fellow ant saw someone familiar
I observed, creeping became a race
With a very fast pace
They both were almost too near
Suddenly, a man walked on them
With his fatal feet without sympathy
The two souls were then lying barren.
Crushed by chance or carelessly
Didn't matter
Their transitory fragile heart
Stopped by that evil
Ready for their next birth
Either of an angel or of a devil.

Surbhi Dadhich..

Falling...

That’s the easy part.
It’s beyond your control really.
Like a mat being pulled from under you.
Or tripping over something as obscure as a centimetre rise on the pavement.

And as you fall, you can’t deny the excitement and exhilaration as your heart quickens.
Adrenalin courses through your system in a feeble attempt to heighten your reflexes and realign your senses...

Just so you could perhaps stop yourself from getting hurt.

But you also know that you can’t fight the laws of physics and the fact that you’re not a cat.
So you can’t help but submit fully to that moment of defeat.

Now you’ve slammed into the ground.
Tasted dirt...
And rubbed faces, knees and elbows with the harshness of the earth.

If you do get up,
would you be ever so careless again?




I’d watch where I was going if I were you.

For Fr. Raphael

In middle life the sunflower bends its head,
No longer to the sun as in its youth,
But to the earth in all humility,
Ripening for us all its dreams and works,
And aging happily to eternal dawn.

my feather has been posed for far too long; ink has blotted all that i forgot
the opportunity to write has passed
and i'm left speechless in the absence
of all that was meaningful