A dry leave reminds us the past
glory of the tree,
in the same way a lonely heart
tells us the days of love full
of joy and happiness in the past.

Ujjal Mandal, India

We are nothing to the world
But the world to the beloved ones
As a drop of water is a few in the sea
But nectar to the thirsty bird.

Sometimes I feel
I am alone,
None is there
But when I look at
The blooming lotus,
I feel I am among thousand
Happiness and
I am sparkled with
Merriment-
This lotus is my mother:
My muse!

Today I am nameless,
but some day I'll bloom
being a flower.
I must give pleasure to eyes
tired and exhausted.

Ujjal Mandal, India

If I lose myself in the dreamland
Where dreams are made of sand,
The real world will seem just a dream
Like a biscuit without cream.

Life is as tear drops of the morning.
When the sun throws its warm kiss
Away to the drop,
It becomes an invisible entity.

One day I took some water from a pond and
Let them go with a nearby river:
The river accepted them to
Their long journey together;
Some water I drew from the well and
Drove them to the same river:
The river accepted again without resistance.
After that I filled a bucket with rainwater and
Released them into the river:
The river agreed to move together.
The river welcomed all sincerely-
She never laid her hands on the scales of
Caste but spread the stream of love in her veins
And arteries all around.

ujjal mandal, india

emotion has no language
but still it melts
when someone
touches it

Ujjal Mandal, India🌹

If you want to talk
With your soul, you've to
Meditate. For meditation is
The only language
Of serenity and tranquility.

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Ujjal Mandal, 14 Feb🌹

Rose paints the shadow of love with its scarlet petals,
Rose showers the heart of love with its green odour,
Rose fills the fissure of broken love with its dense blood. Oh my love, come to me and let's bloom together
Like a rose!

Ujjal Mandal, India


A man wading through blood
holding the plant of enfranchisement.
It is none but an Indian fighter and
we are all overshadowed by
the tree unchained today.

Ujjal Mandal, India

A poet is not born to die
He is as spirited as a butterfly,
Oh, all are poets you, he and I.

Ujjal Mandal, India

I dream in the night
And I seek its mystery
In the morning holding
The rays of dream.

Life can recognise
Caste, religion and colour-
A disease of three symptoms:
Caste is engaged with skirmish,
Religion flares up with sudden
Intensity of furiousness, and
Colour creates dissociation.

None but DEATH is constant:
He never plays the role of an actor,
He never does judge on caste, religion And colour:
He believes that there is no gap
Between the palace and the hut.

With a highly volatile temper
A person may lose the beauty of mind
Just like a sweet flower in the winter.

With all sweetness a flower blooms,
But the warmth of the sun
Does burn the soft petals.
The air does fade its aroma away.
The water hits the soft petals
With a mighty splash
Time and again.
But
If the beauty of mind blooms once,
Neither the sun, the air nor the water can
Harm it.
With the beauty of flower,
I can win the beauty of mind.
But with the beauty of mind,
I can win the grace of God.

Ujjal Mandal, India

On a spring morning the sweet
smell of newly clad blossoms
coated with dew and honey,
I saw a maiden tugging
a ivory comb through her long
and smooth tresses
beneath a tree;
I approached to her.
Oh, she was more florescent than the moon
of the night,
Flowers stoop to her beauty,
such beauty I never have seen nor
I felt before,
I agree to gobble up the poison
of her charm and daintiness.

The heaven's eye becomes tired
With rage,
Water endless in the sea.

Winter deflowers the tree,
Spring fills the fissures-
The process constant all year round.

Clouds take off the canopy-
Vapours make a sail
Occuring in cycles.

Leaves green and alive
Develops gray hue,
A tree never stops dreaming.

Ujjal Mandal, India

Pursue the beauty until the ugliness leaves you alone
And let you bloom
like a flower in the stone

Ujjal Mandal, India


When a little bird comes out
From eggs shell, the snake
Is ready to place the new born bird
In its womb.
The neighbors
And the parents cry aloud
For help. We all can hear their
Pathetic words but we pass them by
As though nothing happened.

Silence is so peaceful and tranquil
like the air at the top of the hill;
you can have the complacency of life
if you cut the head of arguments with a knife;
emotion is there
where the heart is free and without fear;
if the mild petal is the heart of a flower,
controversy is a huge body except power;

be the clouds in the open air
and feel the gifted life in each hour,
be the flowers heavy with nectar
and welcome the bees in summer even winter,
be the song of a nightingale
and let your burden heart sail.

Each night I say good night
to the moon,
and she comes to me in my dream
exploring her warm love,
but I can't feel her.

Love the mother
Do you know why?
She is a flower--
A heaven to a butterfly.

It was a winter evening, the sun had to go early.
I could hear the cry of our dear cat, his sunken eyes wished
to tell a pathetic story, steps tattered and wished to
say-''I am too exhausted to walk''.
His broken voice
reminded me the broken string of my heart that
I played oneday,
he hid the thick tears
behind the curtain of his patheic joy as the
water hides itself into the ice.
I remember
I fed him that last evening but
who knew he would run
away on a secrect way
from the sweet garden of paradise to the world of Pluto.

In the morning I did see the cat lying on the
comfortable
bed of ruthless death.
I fetched milk to drink him.
He drank unconsciously I supposed.
When I called a divine call, the cat left his last breath
Lifting his right leg as if blessed me that was
incredible but credible.
I paused for a while like a dead tree.
It seemed the air lost its way, the sky lost
its beauty,
the sun forgot to shine up, oh, how pathetic it was!

Today I can hear the sound of the ***** and the ground
they made a little room together for our dear cat,
my father digged.
I made his bed under the ground with my own hands.
But I couldn't provide a single lamp
for his dark room.
He looked like Seamus Heaney's the tollund man.

Often I dream our dear cat is alive and cheery, but
Oh, in reality he is no more.
Although he speaks a lot today
such as a silent portrait hanging on the white wall.
Ah, my heart aches!

Ujjal Mandal, India

Pursue the beauty until
the ugliness leave you alone
and let you bloom
like a flower in the stone

I am Misti--, didn't get it?
Misti(sweetness) is my name,
My grandmother gave me that
Honor, I'm too grateful.
I'm going to 8 months
This November soon,
My limbs are
Not properly working now,
As a little bird fears to fly
Into the sky, below the mountain,
I am quite like that: I can't
Hold my legs sticked to ground.
My voice is like the groaning
Of the cloud you can hear but
Not to decode the meaning.
I want to speak with definite
Sense but my tongue
Slips, it reminds my age:
I'm very delighted for having
Such a temple where mom, dad,
Grandfather, grandmother and uncles
(Mee too) all together.

O, grandfather! I'm too little to climb
On your shoulder, I want to take
Repose there.
But don't worry grandpa, very soon
I'll grow up & I'll be there.
When I'll complete my two years,
Promise me: you'd be my horse &
I'll take a ride on you.
Thinking so, much pleasure I'm
Feeling with supreme verve:
But I can't make my words way.

Dear grandpa! when I grow up,
I'll go to the field to feed you:
The cool rice with water, onion,
Green chilli and boiled potato
I'll carry all in a *** on my
Little head.
When you consume the food,
I'll be busy catching the grasshoppers then, how glad I'd be!

I know you are all worried
About my unskilled thinking,
Of course, that should be!
But you all have forgot one thing:
I'm the MUSE of my dearest uncle!

Ujjal Mandal, India
26.04.2021

Who does not love the flower?
They bloom being a mother,
Because of the purity of mind
Like the innocent lamb so kind,
And the purity of heart
Throwing off all the dirt.
O, let your heart bloom with colors
Being the flowers

Life is incomplete
If it is defined as:
'Absent of poetry, and lack
Of feelings'.

When spring arrives,
A group of flowers enjoy
Their countenance and
As the day grows older
They lose their incandescent looks.
If they could know the collapse
Before the begetting,
I hope they'd remain unborn.

A child was obsessed with
Playing her dolls,
Fortuitously a wooden wife
Fell on, mother said:
'The earth is dancing',
The child took it in a wrong way,
Her body was found
After ten days under the whetted
Crown of cement made house,
The sun kissed her pale cheeks
And gave her last smile.

We are characters of different
Stories,
The earth is the stage colored
With tears or gold,
We have been made.
This is a kind of book
And the author of its is the Almighty

A slice of smile
Can cast thousand lights
Over the shadow
Of snow-clad pain,
The budding blossom of
Happiness is the smile
Where heart and mind
Compose the songs together
Sitting under the flowering tree and
If the song of beauty is written once,
Smile is everywhere!
Happiness is everywhere!

Ujjal Mandal, India

mother tongue is the
language
of ambrosia,
dip in it and sip the honey!

The night full of moons, a firefly
Came flying with bright light and I
Was pursuing her all the night.

But vain, where I went along
Like fading away of nightingale song,
I saw a dancing boat's sail.

The moon was glowing more
Than the another day, the door
Of my heart caused her to sway.

The light of the firefly I followed
Made me rich beyond the dream of odd,
She was more sweeter than the cream.

The air was so gentle to the firefly
And suddenly she came to cry,
Later I knew Agnitanaya was her name.

Soul whispered, "you're in the desert,
Upon the sand you're drawing art,
Thus the night declared morning.

Now I know I was searching a fellow,
It was nothing but a dark shadow,
Although I felt her pleasure and lark.

(Agnitanaya: the daughter of fire)

Ujjal Mandal, Ganguria, India

Keep dreaming like the river,
One day
This will lead you to the sea
With bare shores.

No pen has sufficient ink
To dig into the mother;
No writer has enough brains
To attribute upon her the beauty
Of words,
No painter is able to sketch
The mother with his immature hand,
She is a silent power:
She is the brightest of the brights;
The strongest of the strengths ;
She is the softest of the softs;
The most beautiful of the beauties;
She is the bravest of the braves;
The mother is the life of the lives;
The stillness of the innate objects;
We are nothing without having her;
She is the kernel of ALL lives & things.