The delicate, velvet paper
And the silky pen of a writer;
There, they lie, on the table,
Untouched, unscribbled.
Through the windows,
A gust of wind blows,
Disturbs a profound silence
To fill the room with romance.
Outside, leaves are falling all around,
The rain starts pouring gently, with no sound.
Inside, her heart slowly melts,
Lost in a daze she knows best.
He whispers to her
Softly, in a murmur,
The words he’s waited years to say.
Feeling the moment, she turns away.
Tears fall down her lovely face;
Some things shouldn’t be said.
Now is too late,
We can’t play with fate.
He takes her hand, and she, the pen.
She has to write on the paper.
He needs to know her despair.
But he won’t let go.
And so remains the paper,
All blank; just like the world of a loner.
She can’t write for him after all
For he won’t understand
That there was a time
That she liked him dearly.
But the rain has stopped.

-20/02/2011

The galaxy is white—
a seamless pulp,
where we drain inks on.
On unscribbled portions
or in between monochrome lines.

The blots and smears,
and the succession of strokes and curves
are the stellar projections
to aesthetic calligraphies.

We did not know
that the stars were in our hands,
or at the tip
of whatever writing instrument we held.

We did not listen to the sounds
of galaxies crumpled by the hand,
or of stars burned to ashes by flames.
These sounds, after all,
remain inaudible in space,
so should all hatred and criticism.

Some believe that
some squander,
and that some conserve
the fluid of immortal witnesses
in a universe of astral imprisonment
that bears prejudice and judgment,
but boundless freedom.

A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy.
Varying durations of immortality,
but immortality nevertheless.