This heart, dosed on Chopin and Bach
Traces your voice, a subtle echo even , somehow,
What is silence to a room full of devoted hearts
waiting to bloom,
I know : ones without an unforgivable autumn
will wait and wait
my love, I seek a way out
to you and your summer.
In the end, the tress
Drizzle and disappear,
There is no night in this summer
someone spilled the sky’s heart red.
Call it a predicament,
Or the nature’s curse,
As soon the girl blossoms into a woman
her heart is never hers.
It belongs to the roots:
Her parents, her family,
Her unknown love, devoid of the sorrowful meetings.
A transaction she never prefers.
She sit in her balcony
For the sky teases her for sorrowful palette.
These wonders if everything, falls in her place
This heart transacted with a pulse of sorrow,
blooms into the autumn light of hope.
There is something about your face,
I wonder and wonder and never fail.
This heart somehow I feel is mine, tell me a price.
is it A knife, some blood, a meticulous sacrifice ?
Come back now, in the winter we promised.
Retrace yourself, somehow.
This heart deluded of our voices.
its our, for now. forever somehow
Make it the last sun,
the last moon,
the last meteor.
I want this time to last.
For chase me now, as you can,
As spring chases winter.
every then, somehow
SB
There are some fragments of me,
that refuse to time travel,
they live in grandeur of yesterday,
There are some fragments of me
that travel ahead of me,
they clutch deep into my body
and drag me to uncertain future.
Finally there are some fragments,
which believe neither in beautiful past or uncertain future,
they keep me on the ground and always walking,
they keep me sane and full of vision
I call them Hope.
© Shashank Bhardwaj.
Two souls floating around,
dissolving in each other
without a sound,
in a world full of shouts and noises,
forgetting all their easy choices,
like the sky and dark clouds,
let us brew a darkness that haunts,
that torments the sun to rise,
till ages we separate from love.
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Toiling hard day and night,
looks tired at every sight,
for every dream in eyes,
lonesome cries
and few delights,
still walking down the road,
he never forgets to smile,
to wish people around,
learn something new
and share what he has,
be it food,
life
and laughter,
I wonder why they call him poor.
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Imagine a Fire without light,
just burning hot,but not bright,
like dark ashes breathing somewhere,
a poor and ordinary sight like this everywhere,
I see fire inside every living soul,
burning uselessly in meaningless chores,
when will I see lives burning bright,
fire and light trapped in dreamy eyes,
burn yourself now,not tomorrow my friend,
don’t leave even seconds to repent,
die in this fire,let it consume your heart,
reincarnate from ashes,with a new start,
Like a Phoenix and absolutely nothing else.
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Sheets of paper,
printed black and white,
knows the world better,
without a real sight,
I wish I was a newspaper,
I would know better then,
about the world inside me,
without a look in the mirrors again.
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Writings to Heaven 