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Pi at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur
Meets a human being who holds a mirror!
Up till now, the number, as it knew only sway,
in discovery mode on its most numerically polished way.
No more, it begins on a human, in front of its eye!

Pattern and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height.
Only to bag the ultimate discovery before it there was one:
Fathima, the first spiritual woman, mooned there at first!

Fathima steps up once nature is a following shadow
over the dead end, the irrational chasm she goes!
Then, for the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is a drop,
The rope to the top is the lead feminine Fathima's lock!

Truly, only one feminine form has reached out
to the other end on the cosmos' highway.
Zooming past nature's hidden gems - the irrational pi,
the most complex chasm, yet a mathematical goldmine.

Beyond the masses' eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon on the highest high!
.
The red fairies on the midday's spot on,
the black swans over the rainbows but wonder evermore.
How Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros' dream ascension.
Potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendo
between the past and future, here and hereafter, a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow -
oh, nothing is like it in plain sight or the world in toto!

Raw Fathima moves in shadow; nature follows,
clustering atoms span in between the two.
Only to witness her secured, encrypted fashion -
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning
in Makkah and Medina, all the while she was living!

Rainbows shaded in and spark out,
smelling of rose in her veiled black hair:
The cosmos anew glinting off on its edge ever,
deeper quintessence than the dark matter!

The blueprint, intelligent pre-design is in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent is in her eyes.
Yet beyond all the masses' eyes,
she is 'Zahra', the light on the original way.

Truly, only one feminine form has reached out
to the other end on the cosmos' highway.
Zooming past nature's hidden gems - the irrational pi,
the most complex chasm, yet a mathematical goldmine.

Beyond the masses' eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon on the highest high!
MetaVerse 19h
A duck floats
On the koi pond
With lily pads.

The buried peanut
Unearthed in the garden
Is full of dirt.

Warm sunlight
With broken clouds
& cold raindrops.

A squirrel runs
With an apple core
In his mouth.
The oak has
Words of thunder
Divine connections
                      He shall be your double bass

The willow oh the the willow
Her immortality
And vitality
                      She will be your cello

The windswept Hawthorn
Sacrifice's self to
Sweeten souls
                      She will be your viola

The Rowans shall sing together
Enchant with
A final spell
                      They will be your violins

And you
You shall conduct the wilderness
With such intensity
                   The world will slow to attend
minisha 1d
Begging to graze the weeping clouds,
the ocean is leashed to the facade of horizon.
Clad in blood at twilight, precursing moonlight,
the sky garbs the ocean in its hues.
Yet, the mutual admiration is baneful,
since the osculation is destined to be an illusion.
But beneath the galaxy, when somnolence seals the world,
the ocean desires escapism and reaches for its beloved,
however, betrayed by victory, it devours the mortals,
Pondering if it is demanded by requited yet unattainable love.

— m ☆
hi, poets! i recently discovered this corner of interest and decided to finally unleash the poet inside me. i am looking forward to support from everyone, thank you so much.
Stolen by the wings of a canary,
Soaring through clouds
And weaving through hidden canopies,
Is a song known only to the sun
And certain flowers.Trapped, the song pleads
In early morning
And in the dusk of shadows:
"Hear me sing, O lonely forest!"
Yet no one answers her call.

Frantic, the canary ruffles her feathers,
Searching for a single ear,
One soul to hear her precious
Color held captive.Yellow stole the canary,
Its hue seducing her,
Staining her white genesis golden
Through months of dancing
With swaying southern honeysuckle,
Chasing the setting sun,
Soaking in every sweet note
Of yellow’s orchestra.

Defeated, she finds a secluded tree
Atop a barren mountain
And sings one final time:
"Hear me sing, O lonely earth,
For I have claimed your light as mine!"
She spreads her petite wings,
Each feather a ray of sunlight.
"Hear me sing, O mighty mother,
You alone have listened..."

Then, the canary weeps,
Her tears dropping notes of yellow,
As her feathers fade to pristine white,
Unblemished by envy’s hue.
At last, she finds her own song,
Whole in its quiet truth.
Late October,
and they have assuredly returned.

A canopy of clusters.

At second glance
the leaves on the trees are wings.

Whisper into the dreamscape
for they sense your voice.

Revive them with your breath.

Hold out your hand
like you hold out hope.

The warm sound of flutterings.

Circadian clocks in their antennae,
a sense of where they've been
and where they are going.

The gift from their Creator
moves them in the right direction.
aleks 1d
it's easy to say time heals all wounds,
when every barren branch blooms again in spring,
when every new chick is taken under a safe wing.

but time is yet to wake me from my eternal winter sleep.

i still lay, unmoving, in my barren keep.

even bears leave me behind,
a permanent fixture in their den,
"maybe time will wake him next spring,"
they say, now and then.

the forest whispers above my head,
calling to the last absentee,
but i am no tree,
and spring does not speak to me.
of eternal winters spent observing life around me
Shane 2d
Falling, like autumn leaves,
Drifting through the air,
Guided by the wind,
In shades of red and yellow fair.
But as they touch the ground,
Their colors start to fade,
Turning brown and battered,
Before they pass away.
Beaten, tattered, and torn,
All hopes of happiness forlorn.
D 2d
What is happiness?
I dare say it's the early parts of spring
Where the blooms first start their beautiful display
Pink Hyacinths, cherry blossoms, dandelions
The eager fluttering of buttery butterflies
Or the curious buzzing pauses of a bumble bee.

The green buds on ancient oaks
Or the tiny growths of hydrangeas,
It's in the beauty of warmer days, sun bathed
And a milder evening by the bonfire.

Happiness is in company kept,
A cold beer and smoked BBQ,
It is the music we dance to or annoy the neighbors with.
It’s in the good times and memories
Creating new ones as we come together.

Happiness is a dirt or bridled trail
Verdant walls of trees and those arboreal things
Squirrels rustling in susurrus steps
And bird singing their symphonies
Bidding for applause in their skyward stage

Happiness is blue skies
With cotton ball clouds,
And sunbeams touching down
To highlight the cricket fiddling.

Happiness is in the littlest things
We barely notice, as if it were as common as a breath
But if you disconnect, let the stress melt
And focus on how alive our earthen mother is
You would see, in every step, on every twirl
Happiness is one sunlit day away.
One can never truly explain happiness accurately, but this is what makes me happy, currently.
The tree stood tall,
eyes lifted to the quiet of sky.
Its branches bore the season's pride—
a crown of leaves, dancing in light.

Among them, one—
a leaf brushed in green and gold,
clung close to its place.
The hush came softly,
a gentle breeze,
barely a whisper,
yet enough.

It loosened.

It let go.
And as the stem slipped from its hold,
the world tilted.

Fear first—sharp and quick—
of falling, of ending,
of the space between belonging
and being alone.

But the breeze curled beneath
like a secret promise,
and suddenly—
flight.
A quiet thrill, a floating wonder,
as if the sky had always been calling.

It spun, slowly, weightless,
and glanced back—
at the branch that once cradled it,
the siblings it played beside,
the early rains, the sunlit hushes,
the laughter of birds.

A pang—
not regret,
but a soft sorrow,
a love for what was!

Then came thought—
of life, of letting go,
of how even in descent
there is a reason.
Even as a fallen leaf,
it would dry, curl,
be swept, be burned,
warm someone’s night,
feed the roots of its mother tree,
become earth again.
It could be a bookmark,
a decorative piece —
reminding of beauty, of quiet change.

It understood.

And when it touched the ground,
it did not break.
It became.

Still, quiet,
yet filled with a knowing—
that even in this silence,
there was music.
Even in the end,
there was offering.
Even in the fall,
there was flight.

And above,
the tree swayed once,
not in mourning—
but in grace.

© Susanta Pattnayak
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