Time

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It is time to say goodbye to another

Time we welcomed with warmth and hope.

By remembering that glorious sunrise.

 

Time that stands testament to games of dice

Between truth and lies.

 

Time that kills us slowly like wine

That ages as patiently as us,

Nestled in her shrine.

 

Time,

You sodden column of death and dust

You hurt us with the old

As much as heal with the hope of something new.

 

Time,

She is that old lover

Who forgives but does not forget.

She chose to leave you

But remembers when you clawed her

Heart out with a mere whisper of another era.

 

All us babies will sing of our unpigmented loyalty to time

Tonight.

“Tomorrow will be better and happier”.

An cuss to her ears.

 

Well who am I not to abide,

I am as much a sinner as the other one beside.

So remember it like a gentle sad sigh.

Tomorrow is your friend

If you know she can be your foe

In fleeting beats hereby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seine

 

 

I stood by the banks of Seine,

Watching a million faces talking in

Smiles and lines of pain

Dwelling in hope,

 And losses lost in

Dreams.

 

I watch lovers kiss,

And lovers cry,

And lovers giving 

Life a try.

 

The breeze envelops me 

Like a strong man’s embrace,

And he whispers into

My nonchalant ears,

“Happiness tonight is measured 

Not in gold, nor in silver

Or signs or silk slivers.

She lies waiting,

In letters written,

With years and years of yearning

In the middle of time,

Hiding in the crevices of

Crackled spines, 

Mopping up their breath into

The fibres of dried pulp,

Like a lovers’ lips

Sealed in her nether heavens.

And broken dances ,

Strumming from the strings 

Of a vagabond ukulele.

Once a kid’s, once a nomad’s

Once a collector’s,

But forever someone’s.”

 

By the banks of Seine,

My friends and amors 

Dance and caress,

And drink the moist sweat

Of an evening they will remember 

The rest of their lives by.

 

Distance

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In abject silence, what to think of.

 

The quietness of a ticking clock?

The loneliness of a bird

Perched on an empty branch?

The ember in a dying restless soul

That wants to dance…

The ageing sun

That will someday sink

Into the sky

Blueink to black.

 

But today we shall smile

And sleep

As long as our earth goes round

And our time goes right.

GREEN BEACON

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This bunch of green, to me is the most idealistic of living beings. The epitome of perfection. The symbol of what beauty should be made to be.

It chose to befriend a pile of gray, cracking, cold rocks,to live in symbiosis and harmony, to provide its own minimalistic yet profound happiness to the beholder’s eyes.

Isn’t that how humans are supposed to be? Realise the potential of a cracking soul, adopt it, nurture it and show the rest of the world what can come of the most downtrodden of men. Or women. Or a child. And when we tune on that nerve of compassion in us, we bring into being an ideal world. Quite a Utopic concept, but only if we thought about what is happening around us with a wider “opened eyes”, will we understand, that it is not easy for anyone. The king amongst us, would be an insomniac worrying about his fading charm, the swan amongst us could be an abandoned daughter and the child with the bouncy hair and cherub cheeks would probably be craving for its mother’s warmth.

My own soul feels gray and cracked. And as much as I dont want to look back, I realise that only if I embrace my past with kindness will I be able to smile tomorrow. And I am grateful for my family and friends for all the support showered upon me, but is everybody else as lucky? As often as depression threatens to kick in, I remind myself that it is always not about me and that I do have a warm hearth and bed to sleep on.

The people we meet are as cold as the weather outside in November. Sometimes colder. We all take refuge in knowing someone more through their social networking profiles, than looking into their eyes and read what their soul is screaming out. It requires courage and we have fooled ourselves into believing that being a coward is a display of bravery. Our laughs are as fake as our will not to cry.

The highest of living beings have forgotten the rules of living, and here is a bunch of plants that are usually weeded out, showing me, what it means like to live and hold life in any given spot of earth. If this is not a symbol of hope for a ruining soul, then what is?