turn to dust.

color me black,

 like those 

secrets, which sleeps

 as weeds

 on lips  

of that woman.

          

     she  walked for ages,

      with a piece of wood,

       searching for a broken cradle,

    And there she stands

       in-between upside down pots

    and wet grasses ,

  to wrap her son's clay. 

        color me yellow,

        like those  

     sun-rays, which settles

        as fires,

      on dreams

       of that man.

    He walked by shores,

    across sands and stones,

   Like a poetry in a beggar's sleep

     Stealing away two orphaned stars,

    And there he stands

 in-between upside down pots

     and the jealous night,

     to wrap his last sleep.

color me concurrently,

  all those

  shades, which snitches,

    as reflections,

 of a rainbow

  in drops.

   we are nothing but

   those drops that run through leaves,

 we stand in a row on the edge,

     and pretend to fall

   a million times,

      while it slowly breezes ,

   before we truly meet the ground

   and turn to dust. 


  In-between upside down pots
and wet grasses.

Walk besides me.

Yes 

sometimes am lonely and lost,

but am not alone.

the red trees walk/will walk besides me

 all the way ,

 till am gone.

You will return.

I watch you from the otherside,

No one shows you a land tonight.

Winter is no where near,

But you will wait no more,

you will fold your hands,

and make wings,

like a migratory bird

you will return back home,

even before the morning shines.

Dont listen to them.

people, they say,

 to sell.

You , you can mould a song.

Sing it,

you can sing it for me.

You, you can tell me again

cry it,

i will listen with silence,

till the night is gone. 

Just like my yesterdays

the tommorows will be red.

May be i will walk again,

from that path I left,

or that i began.

May be i will sing again

that sad song of heaven

or that of hell.

Left or right, past or present,

I know nothing about me

neither the four walls i see.

But i know when summer comes

you will be home again.

And i will dream of you,

the way you  look through your window pane,

waiting for the rain.

I watch you from the otherside,

No one shows you a land tonight.

I cant read the road signs,

Nor see the lights ,

But i know you break and bend, 

and will stand again,

Like circles it will  return,

like a string less kite you will fly

And return back home,

even before, the morning shines.

Frustration

And to hear again and again,
as you say, a stone is good for nothing,
can create a mountain too high,
And if ever, there were diamonds,
or a tiny heart,
...It could be never gained,
like time getting buried under sinking sand.

behind that door.

she lives behind that door.
left all alone,
like that water on shore,
when the waves return.

she could sing to you,
of histories buried under stone,
of seas that turned to sand,
that sand which someone held,
and kept near for ages,
But as the hour glass broke,
it slipped to cover her
from bottom to head.

she could whisper to you
of a ship where an ocean sank,
of lost sailors that 
found a place where
the city never saw a land;
where,
strangers built houses,
from deck of cards,
black and red.

Black
like that hole in a broken branch
left as smoke that was never white.
red 
as the color of that stain on her lips,
left as footsteps
of those strangers who built those
houses in every corner in her,
she gave.


she lives behind that door.
left all alone,
she could have answered
But no one knocks her any more.