Till I am right
and you are wrong
a sense

in me
and above me
in you

and above you
binds us
to reason.

है नहीं मेरी कोई सगी बहन, फिर भी लिखता हूं यह कविता
रिश्ता है बहन का, बहती हुई एक सरिता

मैं नहीं समझा पाऊंगा भाईयो, क्या होता है रिश्ता बहन का
कैसी स्थिति थी हिरण्यक्यपु की, जब दिन था होलिका दहन का

क्या होती है बहन? कैसा होता है यह रिश्ता?
इसमें होता है कोई स्वार्थ, या होती है सच्ची निष्ठा?

सुने बहुत सारे गाने, जो बहन के बारे में आते हैं
जिनकी नहीं है कोई बहन, वे कैसे ये बाते समझते हैं

छोटी कहलाती छुटकी थी, बड़ी कहलाती है दीदी
पहली थी अपनी घर की लक्ष्मी, अब होगी किसी और की निधि

तो क्या है ऐसी कोई कुमारी, जो बनाएगी मुझे भाई
बांधेगी मुझे राखी, आज सूनी है मेरी कलाई

A tree grown off the seed,
everyone can see
and sees the seed
when none see the tree.

The seed, a dead end,
no pattern to see.
Punting in a zero pool,
what then comes to be.
The one is now the honey
spring for every bee!

how faint his final cry
how frail his last goodbye
plays on low as he drifts away
'song of the sandman lullabye'
he wraps himself in memories
he finds a dream and falls
the music on a constant loop
makes its way down hollow halls

morning light now finds no breath
the pen's ink soon to dry
his final words
his quiet death

'song of the sandman lullabye'

The sea has a legendary story that penetrates our depths with its stormy love. It paints our world with its unique flavor, and gives life its pungent taste. Its gaze steals the hearts that yearn for it, so they swing like the ships that the waves take away. The sea is our wavy essence, and its wind is a free woman with a charming blue robe. The sea is very soft, but it is violent and leaves no story for the trees, but as you see I sit behind these trees to see the glory of the sea, and melt in my wavy words: "Everything has a rebellious spirit, even you, even me."

When you feel buried under cosmic expectations, just remember that stars burn out too.

if the stars are falling,

we collect it like it’s all ours,

Putting it in a glass bottle like fireflies,

to spark light to where it isn’t

to be vanished when it’s morning

their ignite has gone,

by opening the lid

you’ve seen the welts,

on the inlet of your wrist,

to leave mark to where it shoudn’t

to not be vanished when you’re mourning