Ephemeral things.

The beauty of the sunset is ephemeral,
Yet, it leaves an impression on one’s soul.

The beauty of a rainbow is ephemeral,
Yet, it lingers— a reverie in flight,

Why, then, are beautiful souls so brief?
Do they burn too fiercely, too brightly?
Does the world drain their essence,
Leaving only echo in night?

Are ethereal things not meant to stay?
In this dreadful, weary, sphere?
Was it just a dream?
Was it just like a dream?

A thousand people in a street,
A thousand eyes that’ll meet—
A million personalities in a street,

Some to work,
Some to school,
Some to steal,
Some to fool,

Few are drunk,
Few are poor,
Few to lie,
Few to fly.

A thousand sighs in a street,
A thousand sorrows to tolerate,
A million stories incomplete—

Few slept deep
Few wept in a sheet.

Few to study,
Few to work.

A thousand people in a street.
A thousand griefs that repeat,
A million hearts that skip a beat—

Hard to look in the eyes of others,
Hard to meet a single one.

One can’t—
Love shines bright, too bright to face.
Shy,
(The other might see it in your gaze)

One can’t—
Because all they see is hatred, too much to face
Loathed,
(The other see it on your face)

Baffling,
maddening.

Hard to look in the eyes of others,
Hard to meet a single one.

One can’t—
Because all they see is a rotten soul,
Cursed stain.
(The other leans in, wants to know.)

One can’t,
Because the other is too noble.
Too poor to claim.
(the other scoffs, doesn't want to know your name)

Perplexing,
Bewildering.

Hard to look in the eye of others,
Hard to meet a single one.

One can’t—
Because they respect,
Young,
(The other doesn't.)

One can’t—
Because they are guilty,
Griefed,
(The other is malice.)

Oh—
Dear,
The world is cruel
The world is frayed.

I am full—
Yet starving.

I ate a whole meal,
But I don't feel.

I have everything,
But I am not caring.

I have an intelligent mind, a soul,
And it's maddening.

My eyes shines bright,
But with them I fight.

I am full—
Yet starving.

Its night,
And I am starving,
As it blurs my sight.

I wondered,
What am I starving for?

I pondered,
What am I craving for?

And I keep wondering,
And wondering,
And wondering,
And wondering,
And wondering,

And so on~

Do you sell time?
I have words to unsay,
To someone who’s far away.

Do you sell time?
I’d want to remove my talks,
With someone who doesn't last.

Do you sell time?
I want to be aware,
Of who’s good when things are severe.

Do you sell time?
I’d want patience,
When it needed silence.

Do you sell time?
I’d like to go away,
Into the first day.

Do you sell time?
I want to undo,
The words I drew.

Oh—
You don’t?
Then I guess,
It's bad.

And the country is now full of graves,
Full of sad faces,
But the people stand, saying,
“They are brave.”

So what about the children?
War took everything,
And they are now wildrens.

So, they sit around,
Talking about,
Their wounds.

They are burying,
Their dreams,
Their Families,
Their Home.

So, they pray.
“Please, come back,
I miss you. Mother.”
And so they spend their day.

So when they need food,
Mothers kiss their sons,
And wish for their sons,
To come back alive.

But it wasn't like this,
Once, it was happy.
Once, it was blessed.

War is lost—
But who’s the winner?

The other country?
whose street runs with pride,
but their children still ask
"Why?"

Or

The mothers of their martyred sons?
Those mothers?
Whose tears are falling, unlimited.

Or,

The child?
Whose brothers have been killed in that war?
Those children?
Whose tears are falling, unlimited?

The war has ended,
But who’s the winner?

But the Earth will remember—
The tears of those mothers,
The face of the weeping child.

The graves of those heroic people,
And the history will remember,
Those pride deaths.

The war is finished,
And who's the winner?

No one is the winner?
Everyone is a loser.

Who’s the strangest of them all?
Crows are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They remember the face that hurt them,
And never forget it, yet never seek revenge.

Butterflies are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They are colour blind,
Can’t even see their own beautiful faces.

Cats are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They run away from their house,
Which has everything they need.

Dogs are weird,
“What do you mean?”
If you hurt them, They will come back
and would still save you from danger.

Flowers are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They represent immorality, innocence, forgiveness,
Yet still, anyone would pluck it.

Humans are weird,
“What do you mean?”
They would betray anyone,
For just some money.

Who’s the strangest of them all?
I believe humans are,

Somehow every characteristic of animal,
Clings to humans.

If they have everything,
(unlike animals)
Then why do they choose selfishness?

The flowers died on Monday,
They were fine this Sunday.

I should have watered them,
I should have loved them.
I should have shown affection,
I should have watched them.

It was under my watch,
It is what I regret the most.

I shouldn’t actually have kept them,
I crushed those gems.
They are now withered,
They’ve lost their scents.

Those dead roses,
Which I should have hosed.

Now,
I have put them in my books,
Though their leaves are crushed,
But still they are loved.

The flowers died on Monday,
They were fine this Sunday.

(Do we regret the things we have done,
Or the things which we didn’t?)

Glanced at myself,
Standing in front of the mirror,
Staring at myself,

Had some words swirling,
Which a friend of mine said,
“You’re perfect.”

“Perfect!?”
I repeated, questioned.
“Yes, a million times over.”

“Perfect, perfect, perfect”
My shadow whispered in my ears,
Sending chills in my body.

“Would they like me more?”
“I’d have more attention.”
“I’d be popular.”

“...”

The walls listened,
Judged,
But kept their mouths shut.

“What's this sudden craving for perfection?"
The mirror asked.

“I’d have so much fame. I’ll Change Myself. I’ll change it.”

As I put on new outfits,
Dresses,
Jeans,
And tried everything.
But it was all in vain.

“I am not perfect? Tell me?”

“...”

“Answer me!!”

“Look human,
you have a brain like us, emotions unlike us, feelings unlike us, everything.
Then, why are you all such an idiots?”
The mirror answered, irritated.

Why do you chase perfection?
As if that’s air,
And then you act like you are perfect.”

“Act? I am!”

“Yeah, as if.”

“...”

“If someone Doesn't love you who you are,
Then they don't deserve you,
If they want you to change,
don’t be with them.”

What's the purpose of a flower?
To grow old is a crime.
To be in their prime is a punishment.

The more beautiful it is,
The more people would be attached to it,
More people would pluck it.

Being pretty is a crime?
Being pleasant is a punishment?

Begging god for a minute to live.
Some would give them to their lovers,
Others would give them to their dead loved one.

But—
Oh.
Weren't they supposed to stay?
In this eerie circle?
To make this liveable.

And I'd like to go away,
Somewhere far, far away.

Where theirs only the sound of birds chirping,
Only the sound of the river flowing.
Can reach me.

A small house,
With myself.
And me.

Where no loud noises can touch me.
Where no shoutings can find me.

So If i go,
No one would judge,
No one would talk.

And I'd like my memory to be dissolved—
To vanish into the air,
And that air would go to the polluted area.

So I'd like to go away,
Far, far, away,
Where nothing can reach me.
But the wind,
And the silence.

Stay in my room,
To have; I don't know
Whom,

It looks like waiting,
Rather, panting.

And,
2 months of waiting,
Now, I hate it.

I don't know what am I waiting for,
Perhaps, for someone who’s far away,
My eyes are sore.
My mind is bore.

I don't know what am I waiting for,
Perhaps for someone who doesn't exist,
When she’d walk through the door,
My face would be delightened once more.

But, now she’s gone.
As she warned.
“Do not be attached. Or else you’ll fall on.”

Didn't understood.
Still, nodded.

Guess, should have Been careful,
Since now,
I am despairful.

Dunno what am I waiting for,
Perhaps for someone who’s far away.
Perhaps for someone who doesn't exist north away.

Become a non-living thing.
As a kid,
I used to wish—
Wished to be anything,
But myself.

I thought of becoming a chair,
paused—
“The weight of people
is too heavy to bear”

I thought of becoming a dressing table,
afraid—
“Too many things
to handle.”

I thought of becoming a mirror,
scared—
“They’d shatter me
For the truth they can’t bear.”

I thought of becoming a cloud,
disgusted—
“Don’t want to be someone
Who cannot control themselves.”

Now, I think about that,
giggling,
Over my stupid thoughts.

I wondered,
What I would become.

people say,
“Oh, to be free as a bird.”
Anyone would shoot them
For crossing fences.

What about the air?
People would pollute me
And I wouldn't
be able to take a bath.

I wonder what I will become,
Anything,
But,
A human.

I was never afraid of the dark, but rather my delusions.
Knew they were illusions.

It was those faces that I see,
Not those clowns.
Not those nuns.

It was someone who stares when I close my eyes,
Not those ghosts,
Not those dolls,

Those big eyes,
Staring into my soul,

They’ll eat me alive,
They‘ll eat my flesh.
The thought comes to my mind,
And I open my eyes.

I see nothing,
but,
A Fan,

It was dark.
I looked around I saw faces.
I closed my eyes I saw faces.

Can't a man rest in peace?

Turned my light on,
Closing my eyes off,
They are gone.

(Are they truly gone?
Or waiting for the next moment of vulnerability.)

they never tried to understand others—
Yet demanded the world open-handed.

I suspect,
That isn't how things are done.

I know
the world's a weary sphere,
where cruelty thrives,
and injustice lingers.

but not all—
not everyone—
They are as shady as the rest.

some are beautiful—
As beautiful as white tulips.
Purified, innocent, lenient.
Soft in this world that eats its flesh.

Why do selfish people pluck the petals of white tulips?
Why do they color them red?
Why must white tulips' happiness last only for spring?

tell me—
It's a whole minute of bliss,
Is that enough for a human to live?

The scent of petrichor,
The sound of thunder,

In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee?

In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee.

Perhaps—
In the middle of the night,
A Mother remembers her martyred son.

Perhaps—
In the middle of the night,
Some glasses clink in celebration.

The world is twisted,
The world is baffled.

Some are guilty of their dead daughter.
Some grieve their long-lost son.

Some people hide,
Some people sigh.

Some drink coffee,
Some drink beer.

But,
In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee.

Bitter,
Sweet,
And alive.