Lightness descends
in my head
as a brief vision of yours
reincarnate within me
you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion
an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations
and I read you very slowly
like one of my own written creations.
for I have been a starving reader
all my life
and you were finally
an end to my starvation.
shadows swirl slowly,
into whirlpool of darkness,
will you meet me there?
Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.
this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.
The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.
We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed.
In winter,
when it rains saffron
instead of snow.
Come here,
Sit next to me,
Don’t leave me tonight.
Watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise colored sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds
through mellow howlings.
This cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
Come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow.
Let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.
Don’t leave me tonight,
Come here,
Sit next to me.
He lives through his sketches,
surviving on frugal meals
mostly bread and wine.
Night and Day,
are melancholic mirrors.
he keeps trespassing between them
ignoring the sense of time
creating a vortex of imaginary visions.
Countless Albino Butterflies,
bathe in his color palette.
color-soaked wings
now seek the blank canvas,
the kamikaze of hues is imminent,
for the art to strive
and the artist to escape,
the meddling reality
As waves wrestle playfully,
I revel like a nonchalant dreamer near the shores,
watching the sun disappear,
while the sounds of the sea,
calm its disappearance
I waited all night,
to see the golden coronation
of the bluish waters,
as the horizons brightened up
in the morning
a thousand faces,
a million visions,
now stay with me,
meanwhile the city of dreams,
sleeps somewhere.
It rained almost every night,
the darkness settled in arrays
of brisk coldness,
dissolved in the winds
which howled and shattered
glasses of silence
that followed
for you it just meant a delay,
in carrying those earthen pots
walking with bare feet,
holding the grace and modesty
though puddles of cold water,
the weathers and wonders of god
meant nothing to you,
toiling for days and years
for a future unseen,
visioned through tired puffy eyes
of yours,
the only light you believed in
were in temples that devoured
ghee.
I slept all this time,
but never told you
about the minutes I counted
and waited to hear you mother,
to put the earthen pot
now full of water,
back on its place
and to see you settle down,
next to me again
Writings to Heaven 