In the present scenario،
            Only Sunday time
                      Is the finest thread


To sew unstitched relations

Your song always finds me sweet little piwakawaka
Reminding me to stop
To slow down among the chaos
To appreciate each blessing no matter how small

Your song it guides me Sweet little piwakawaka
Finding me among the thicket dancing around me as I make my way along

Your song it fills my heart with love sweet little piwakawaka
Reminding me of the gifts I've been given bearing life into the world
Reminding me of the ones that have passed keeping them in my heart

Your song it lifts me sweet little piwakawaka
Out of darkness and the gloom

Dark purple sky outside
my window
Offering hints of muted pink
Offering calming influences
Painting the sky
A piece of art
The view is hypnotic to the eye

Dark purple sky welcoming the
night as a close friend
Darkness is not too far behind
Announcing that evening
is about to begin

Reading is a long walk in the garden of kashmir when it is full of blossoms!

Reading is polishing a rusted mind.

Reading is an adventurous journey.

Reading is a memorable confab because all words speak to me.

Going into a mind is like entering a holy place and reading scriptures there.

Much of my life has been invested in
nurturing my children to embrace kindness.
To practice and project decency in their
lives and thus reap the rewards that good
behavior does inspire. To revere and embrace
love given and received.

They will be bequeathed some material riches
when I am gone, but these moral principles
and lessons passed down to me from my folks
are my most enduring and valuable legacy.

My lifelong desire is that my offspring pass on
these values to their future progenies, as there
is no greater human gift to bestow or receive.

snow has the height of pigeons today
translucent joy trapped in its consistency
the whole world is moving I am standing still
to listen to the intensity of ice, to its labour
to hold the tension of true opposites
the perpetual dance of white turning into black
maybe the trees are hallucinating their dreams
the same way we do
sometimes I forget the lesson of winter
to find itself again it has no choice but to
become spring

hands filled with summer  and thoughts with horizon today, flowing by themselves. a sudden burst of joy, amusement in the face of ordinary life, trivial yet so creative beyond our control. the mind contemplating the image of  the situation decided it was funny, it was something else: sitting on a chair in the cold on a busy boulevard waiting for meatballs with mashed potatoes to be ready while reading about how different the thinking of people is in the east compared to the west (the geography of thought) while listening to massive attack and my legs dancing on the pavement while thinking about summer in between the lines while looking after women in the street. me - a surreal collage of actions and thoughts haunted by love as quantum superposition. I wonder where does a thought begin, where does it trully end

this pain like an unwritten poem
only the winter knows how much I loved you
how little I am able to say
the air is tall, the night so deep
I walk in the selfishness of the cold
I walk in this landscape where love is an exile,
a forest without shadows, a party without guests
a happiness without an alibi
something that gets destroyed at the first burst of light
but springs again from the unknown depth of skin

I am in the waiting room of a dying love, a nascent love
while Monalisa is sleeping without dreams
in the depth of my days the certainty of tears
only the winter knows how much I loved you

indulging quietly in their delight
the echoes of light are rumbling the universe apart
I leave behind the skin of some days
no light in some pockets full of depth
but cosmos is born in your hands
what a wonder that light rhymes with delight
so natural so wild

what an adventure carries me inside a surprise
what a surprise to feel ourselves emptied of death
the radiance of an imaginary time quietly rumbling
or is it or was it or is it
the echo of your savage lips

your trainers full of dirt
next to a Christmas decoration,
the woodpacker self-absorbed on a branch,
a pigeon floating on a current of mystery
I emptied of an I in the tenderness
of this fleeting moment