Tale Of Life

Tale Of Life

I

Still haunt me
Still bleed me
Those blurred days,
As if my memory
Paints a colourful picture
Of my inflicted heart.

II

Life flows very fast
From morn to night
From birth to death.
No time to remember
What you achieve in life
Only memory your indelible wife.

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Ode On Melancholy

Ode On Melancholy

I
It pains a lot
To see the celebration
And ecstasy all around
On this special day
That was destined and
Meant to be yours.

II
It pains a lot
To feel how injured
Sadness peeps into
Your mind creepingly
And eclipses the hope
That once lighted your heart.

III
It pains a lot
To know how
The trusted hands
Refuse to hold you tight
And sever all the ties
For which you told many lies.

IV
It pains a lot
To digest the defeat
Where your love,your belief
Your faith you still maintain
Crushed under the wheels
Of deceit and inhumanity.

V
It pains a lot
To realize how
Your budding life
From soiree to a dirge
Turned into a scarecrow
Only left to be scorned.

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The Night Train At Deoli

The Night Train At Deoli

He was a boy of eighteen
And a college goer very keen
Visiting Dehra to his grandmother
Every year in scorching summer.
Deoli was a small station
Thirty miles in calculation
He realised not exactly
Why that train stopped at Deoli.
The lone platform boasted a tea stall
With few stray dogs did only yell
Down the platform a girl came
Selling baskets with no name.
She had a shawl across shoulder
Shiny black hair but feet were bare
It was morning very cold
She had troubled eyes, clothes old.
He got impatient for a glance
To meet her eyes full of romance
She offered him to buy a basket
After hesitation he paid from his pocket.
Plenty of visits subsequently he paid
Not to let the memory of her fade
But nowhere found her at last
The girl who stole his heart.

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The Nightingale And The Rose

The Nightingale And The Rose

It was a promise
She made to the young lover
To dance with him
If a red rose brought for her.
But alas! Not a single in whole garden,
Not anywhere, he cried in despair
His eyes flooded with tears.
From the nest of an oak tree
Heard his pain the Nightingale
Which sang romantic songs
For lovers for so long
“he is a true romantic”, it felt
To sadly see his weeping face.
Like a shadow, the Nightingale
Passed through the grove,
Garden after garden for a red rose
To everyone it cried out,
“I will sing you my sweetest song”
“Give me a red rose”.
White, yellow rose did abound
But not red that it found.
Then the bird flew to the tree
That grew only red rose
Beneath the boy’s window,
But there was no rose
The tree was bare,
“If you want a red rose,
There is a way
But it is so terrible
I can’t tell you”, said the tree
“You must build it out by moonlight
And make it red with your blood,
You must sing to me
With your breast against a thorn
Your blood must flow into my veins.”
‘Death is a great price to pay for a red rose’,
Cried the Nightingale in ecstasy.
It soared in the air
To cheer the boy down in despair,
But he fathomed not the message.
The bird flew to the rose tree
And sang wildly
As deeply the thorn pierced the heart
To draw the blood
To colour the rose,
Gradually the voice grew fainter
As the thorn choked its throat
And the bird fell on the grass,
The red rose is complete by then.
With surprise the boy looked out
He laughed and cried
To see his dreamy red rose.
He plucked and rushed to the girl
To fulfil her kept promise
She frowned and said,
“I am afraid, it wouldn’t go with my dress”.
Dejected the boy threw the rose
In the gutter,
“what a silly thing love is”
He thought and walked away.
In his room, he pulled out a dusty book
From the shelf and began to read.

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sleep…

sleep…

The street looks deserted
No sign of life and activity
From the threatening chasm
Emerges the worms and insects
In search of some fleshy morsel.

In the heap of debris afar lies
A cute baby with closed eyes,
The parched wind buries his body
Scratched and crimson, with sandy dust
In silent peace, he sleeps fast.

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