Preface

When the broad mind has opened, to gaze the stars that shinning in the unfathomable skies and the glittering Nature, its flowers’ fragrances given to taste the wealthy realms of her, as well as Earth's mysteries—that I ever think of to feel and by my thoughts that spread so deep to try to work with things that sounds of ‛creative’. Here I the ‛moody soul’ started his first journey, leaving his home  a few years ago and his up-start was through Literature, Science and Arts and Fiction. Writings and paintings here I believed to be most powerful and that those more often need to convey by the Artist’s conscience and the intensity that gains moral knowledge and appreciation. Here the book has the pictorial paths of Quest and the wanderings, all by imagination’s boat, sails from the western Ideas and its enthusiastic flow. Some finds hope along and also hopelessness, God and Love vagabonding among these ink-stained pages.
Dreamt in the wandering world where no chains shall bind, from the dark veiled lands to the daring spark, no atoms that obscure the force calling light, to aim the glad precious moments of life, to embrace me with a silence and its whispering magic, where gate of hope’s always open to bliss, thundering words are always from roam, the nocturnal pleasure that I only know, and when all will run away as time—why I alone in the upward steps of solitude that caressing wild only wings?
If I met Life as a strange stage of different senses—and I only say you to enjoy the aggressive fruits of my invention. Here it is for all of you can read and evaluate.*


Nithin Purple


Acknowledgement
                                      
­*This book is dedicated to my parents of Love and support,
from where I got the powers to be inspired—to write and prove.

Special Thanks to Parisian Author and poet Roman Payne of
‛cultural book’ for supporting me as a writer of varying tastes.  Also Writer, Wilson B Sanchez of New York, who first gave suggestions  
and his valuable sparkling comments of self-improvable topics, which I always bother. Belated friend, poet and writer, Curtis Plaskon from France for his valuable support. Also Poet Timothy & Hilda from Virginia, to them I had good writing memories. And for all the Indians, this book is an open heart to read.

We're in your bed with the blinds down and a book in my hands and my hair in yours and there are no complaints and you could do this forever as long as we had a little change in scenery.

Click.

We wake up to tangled limbs, sandy toes, and terribly translated Spanish sentences in Cancun.

Click.

We're hungover from pina coladas and white russian daquiris in a Russian red hammock hanging off the coast of Honolulu.

Click.

I open my eyes to ivory smiles and mountain tops and snowflakes in your lashes and smoke cascading from your lips because it's legal here and I love seeing you in your element.

Click.

You yawn to the sound of our mixtape softly playing, wrapped in your aunt's quilts in the back of our van parked overlooking the rust colored rocks topped with lavender reflections in the lake.

Click.

The sun greets us with golden rays leaking through the gaps of shadowed hills that mimic the autumn tinted hazel eyes I'm staring into.

Click.

Hazy gray fog surrounds us to the point we can't see our own hands, only each others faces.

Click.

We roll around on hundreds of palettes of the most famous of artists as we take in the spectrum of colors from inside the Antelope Valley Canyon and we whisper in each other's ears what part of our own bodies each shade reminds us of.

Click.

We're warmed by a fireplace in a quaint house made of stone surrounded by fluffs of white and glacier blue tranquility and a tiny spec of sun fighting to shine through piles of dull pink and gray clouds.

Click.

We're chapped lips and dry skin beneath 900 year old trees and thousands of stars and the man in the moon is looking down in approval like he finally got the perfect candid shot he's been trying to capture for centuries.


We jump into images of the world like old cartoons.
I want to explore every one of earths phenomena with you.
Canals in Venice. Cathedrals in Versailles.
Cu Chi tunnels in Vietnam. Cueva del Fantasma in Venezuela.
I want to spend our nights under the northern lights.
I'd disappear somewhere in the Bermuda triangle if it meant I wouldn't ever have to find myself without you by my side.

I want my happiness to be found in,
my life to be measured by,
my dreams to be slept under,
and my time to pass by,
the sunsets watched with you.

We'll vagabond our way through the seasons and changes in scenery and grow as tall as the trees we carved our initials into.

I touched water yesterday white and cold,
purposely hardened by pugnaciously low
temperatures fighting to withhold
the solid fluid against a thieving star, roaring

sweltering rays to melt, moulded men
made of snow, as the girl grew disappointed
expecting whipped cream texture, lack of softness,
digging deep with fingers covered in gloves,

to make ***** to throw at others who will smile
at the jovial play, insensitive to the endeavours
of the eroded mountain modelled by many million
years of scorching suns, blistering winds,

blizzards freezing falls as they cascade, sculptures
made by nature crossed by bridges, so heavenward
drivers succumb to overwhelming giddiness
before entering an endless claustrophobic tunnel,

where science laboratories hide secrets
of the universe under a three thousand meter
elevated rock. The Great Rock of Italy an immense
park, where protected species graze unscathed,

farmers’ labours engender culinary delights
for an imprisoned dictator, while
physicists discover neutrinos beating light
at a dashing race, and Ladyhawke mutates to fly

over a nocturnal vagabonding wolf. I touched
water yesterday, white and cold, and I could
only imagine the enthralling moment when
spring will come and all shall liquesce

to replenish rivers and lakes, irrigating soils
for centenary trees to blossom once again
granting life to living creatures witnessing
the grand spectacle of perfectly attuned cycles.