What is Life ?

Life is the Mirror of the Soul

Life does not ask who you are—
it only reflects what you bring.
A heart full of love will see kindness,
a mind full of doubt will find walls.

The wind does not change its song,
some hear music, others hear silence.
The sun does not shine any less,
some feel warmth, others only shadow.

A restless soul will call the road unfair,
a weary heart will call the sky unkind.
To the one who walks with peace,
even sorrow holds a gentle hand,
even endings speak of new beginnings.

The world does not rise against you,
nor does it bend in your favor—
it simply reflects what lives inside.

Carry anger, and the road will be heavy.
Carry love, and even storms will guide you home.
For life is not what happens to you—
it is the way you choose to see.

Love and jealousy

She knocked one night, so soft, so light,
wrapped in silver, dressed in spite.
She smiled and said, “Let me in,
I know your heart, I know your sin.”

I let her sit, I let her stay,
she murmured doubts to drift my way.
She pointed out what wasn’t mine,
and dimmed my joys so hers could shine.

“They have more,” she sighed so sweet,
“More love, more laughter, more complete.”
She traced my fears, she fed my pain,
she tied my heart in iron chains.

But then I saw—her hands were bare,
her voice was hollow, thin as air.
She had no warmth, she had no grace,
just empty echoes, just empty space.

So I stood tall, I cleared my mind,
I left her broken words behind.
I opened windows, let in light,
and Jealousy faded into night.

And love? It stayed, so soft, so bright,
wrapped in warmth, bathed in light.
It asked for nothing, gave me all—
Jealousy knocked, but Love stood tall.

You ask everyone you know,
How long does it take to forget?
They answer in numbers, in measured time—
A year for every year you loved,
twice as long if it was true,
half if you replace her with another.
But they do not speak of the truth—
that love does not end,
it only changes its place within you.
It leaves the hands but not the soul,
steps out of sight but not out of existence.
You erase her number,
but she remains,
not in words, but in silence.
She lives in the space between heartbeats,
in the air before a name is spoken,
in the way your hands still know
the weight of her absence.
You tell yourself love must have an ending,
that what can be touched must also fade.
But love is not held in the palm—
It is the wind that moves through it.
It is the river that does not ask
if it may pass.
It is the flame that burns
even when the wick is gone.
You were at the age
where love felt like possession,
where you thought what was given
would always remain.
But love does not belong to us.
It visits, it teaches, it departs—
though , it never truly fades.
And perhaps, in another life,
you held on at the right moment.
Perhaps your hands were softer,
your heart more patient.
Perhaps she still wakes beside you,
her voice still shaping your mornings,
her laughter still filling the spaces
you now walk alone.
But in this life,
she is the wind you cannot catch,
the shadow you do not chase,
the presence that stays
even as you learn to let go.
And the half-life of love
is forever.

I may feel alive, a virtuoso in life,

Walking tall, even on the edge of a knife.

From a toddler, afraid to cry,

To soaring heights, reaching the sky.

She lost her sleep, even her dreams,

To feed me through nights, tolerating my screams.

Cradled me softly, helped me to walk,

Stayed quiet, listening to my silly talk.

Stood by me through thick and thin,

As I grew up, shedding my skin.

Whatever the strife, whatever the fear,

She always stood by, ever so near.

How can I repay her, what can I give back,

For what she lost, keeping me on track?

Though you’ve left me long ago,

Your echoes in my heartbeat flow.

Watch me from above, guide me with care,

In nature’s embrace, I feel you everywhere.

A tribute to all mothers, here and there.

Pain is the door we fear to pass,
Still  behind it, the truth holds fast.
Not a wound, but a carving deep,
Not to break, but to make you see.
It knocks, not to shatter, but to wake,
To unchain the self, to let it remake.
For pain is not grief, nor loss, nor end,
But the hand of the unseen, calling you in.

In every pulse, a story beats,
In every word, a soul retreats.
One hand heals, the other writes,
Both chase truth through days and nights.
A hidden torment , a silent tear,
Both arts draw us ever near.
Medicine mends, and words endure,
One is art, the other—its cure.

Pondering .. the circle of time..

The sun will rise, the sun will set,
Yet every day, we still forget.
We chase the future, fear the past,
But time moves slowly ,yet so fast.
A seed once buried finds its way,
A drop of rain will meet the bay.
What fades today may rise once more ,
No loss is lost, no end is true .
We build, we break, we laugh, we cry,
We ask the stars, but get no reply.
Yet in each breath, in every sign,
The truth is simple—-all is time.

Yes ..  All Is Time …!!