A Sense of Yearning

Through the quiet of the night walked the three men; Three they were, and a hundred patient trees, who Watched them try to pour fresh colours Into the quiescent melancholy within the greens. Melodic phrases they hummed with strange avidity; Songs which they sang were full of life; But the night was already quiet, cold and dead. The lonesome grass reeds embraced their music Like the cheek of a mother welcomes her tears, And somehow thanked the three strange men In a voice soaked in painful inaudibility. The men were aloof from the deceptions The world out there offers aplenty, with a smile; And so were those trees, who watched the world Burn to ashes, and the creations of the Almighty Soil their souls and the souls of others, Reducing to dust too heavy for the Earth to carry. But that night was the night they had longed for For that night, the men who had remembered the trees Were men who sang songs, gifting soporific euphonies; Men who had flutes in their hands, an

It was a November night, cold and silent When the small cube of ice saw the candle; Cold he was, amongst a few other cubes Lying in insouciance, waiting for the glass. And there on the table stood the candle, Tall and firm, in bewitching beauty... She was burning all alone in patience. Everything besides her was benighted But there was light in her, around her; And her wax gleamed like the divine skin Of a Goddess, under the light of her halo; The cube of ice heard a small sound... A heartbeat? But he had always been so cold; Cautiously he moved out of his tray Responding to the pull by the candle On the invisible but strong thread. He got awed by the glistening of himself As he went nearer, and nearer still; "That's enough," cried the candle. The ice stopped and felt a beat, again. "You are a beauty, my flame," he said. The fluttering candle smiled; And the flame reddened and looked down. "I can't fee

Will there be a voice Crawling, behind all the echoes? Will there be one warm finger In the bunch of cold hands? Will there be a green leaf On the weary and naked tree? Will there be a battle Of fears against hope, Behind every mother's prayer? Will there be answers In plain sight down the road? Will there be masks That are better than the souls? Will there be a rainbow With seven distinct colours And no hesitation? There will be all; all of this; If you water your thoughts In the bright sun, And keep a story, that begins After the final full-stop.

The singer heard the soft smile Of the capricious summer breeze; As she embalmed him with the warmth Of the promises in her embrace… 'Sing me a song, ' she asked 'A song as beautiful as the birds Who know no taste of captivity... A song like the unexpected vagary In the mood of the playful tides... A song as serene as the melody In the first cry of a newborn... A song as beautiful as the painting A blind artist desperately tries... A song as endless as the sky That gets enkindled with orange and red By the patiently setting sun...' The singer's smile showed his promise. In search of such cerulean melody The lover, young, embarked upon; Hundreds of days he spent living Deep in the veils of his colourful dream; Their lives had branched; but he knew She would be waiting for the song. Summers and winters, autumns and springs He basked in their shades with joy; He sang with every fallen leaf; Until one chilly night he saw The most beautiful

Sunset showed us paradise Right here, on this bridge. It was where he had learnt to walk... But never realized the pain Of falling and not finding a hand. It was here where 'she' had happened to him But he never realized the pain In smiling, at an incurable disease. It was here where a boy had Once brought flowers for his dream; It was here where his reality had Walked over them without looking back; It was here where autumns had seemed beautiful It was here here the autumns turned pale And it was here where rains Had suddenly turned compassionate one night Everything but the bridge changed; It stands the same way, a patient witness... And this bridge, he believes so, Shall recognize him even today as the boy Who had seen the true colour of sunset.

Watching the palette, spoke a bemused Richard Brown "Must I pour bright red all over your gown ? Make a soporific colour for your half closed eyes With thick oil and paints to blend your lies. Just above your temples a scintilla of violet And your cheeks below dry, no, maybe a little wet; The tranquil shade of the smile on your lips Hiding behind your nonchalant golden hair wisps..." The brushes of Richard Brown danced along And the cerulean composition became a song He watched beauty carve out of creative stains And from terra incognita came rushing his pains Washing his brush, said he in a voice weak : "Elizabeth, there's a promise you failed to keep. For now, you are looking into my eyes, straight A thousand years is perhaps a long wait In this picture shall I watch your eyes Never losing those dreams over the endless skies Look, your lips are red, brighter than the rose The song's been written, the diary's 'bout to close..." Standing up, Richard

Why couldn't I be like that? A little boy, playing in the sun And chasing butterflies...? Knew I shall grow up one day Like everybody else And I feared the sun would stop Smiling back at me... Why do children grow up? Is it necessary to learn to lie? To fake smiles, to wear masks? To get lost in the rigmaroles That life offers aplenty? To hear about 'being a good person' And not being one, but still growing up? To write songs about love And lend them to the most undeserving? To consider your mother a burden Whose absence had once meant darkness? I'm the greediest person in the world 'Cause I wish to have the biggest treasure.... The days that sped way too fast... I want to lose balance and fall From my little bicycle again.... I want my father to bear my weight On his shoulders, singing unmelodious songs I wish to get awed staring at the rainbows Instead of knowing every scientific explanation I wish to fall, g

Consanguinity has shown its most beautiful face In yours, Mother, that is the only face of God That I have seen and believed in. However dark the night may be In your bower there is always light. Over me, always, was the better blanket; The unburnt bread always on my plate. Weird were your ways of saying how Unconditional your care is; Your love unquantifiable. But wounds are destined to efface; After the last scar smiles;  The way back always ends  In your assuasive embrace; No matter how long it takes, To you I shall return, just like how The evening bird After a day's carefree wandering Finally realizes how dark it is getting, And flies back home.

There is nothing more serene and soothing than the thought of returning home, after a rough day...... The day was spent walking on the fire-bed, with feet that were accustomed to the cushioned bed of wet morning grass.... A hundred times he lost his way... A hundred times he had to stumble over camouflaged obstacles... A hundred times his thirst was fooled by the mirages... And only when he heard his fate tired of laughing at his helplessness, he found his way before him..... With dusk dawning upon the patient trees, he walked back towards home, tired and happy....

They watched the God and his poignant smile And the face of disaster, so cruel, so brutal. Floating corpses their eyes met with With the helpless wails of a hundred voices Tearing the heavens ruthlessly apart To find a scintilla of mercy; To kindle the last drop of tear. Through the hungry waters they struggled forward Pulling bodies up, eyes soaked in fear. A strange shade of fear that was; A fear of finding a known face... And the sky kept rumbling over them; Its satiation being far from over; While the little girl groped For her mother's cold fingers; While the helpless man howled over His son, cold and pale.

I watch you smile in insouciance While I count the number of days. You, my child, have grown up in unneeded haste; While I was left back, like the last leaf Dangling from the tree older than you and me. Never did I notice when You had released my finger; I was too engrossed in the Elysian beauty Of your first walk, on the tender grass bed. Ours is the richest form of consanguinity, That I hope, son, you still remember. You may need me again someday, I know. But today, laugh with me my child. Live with me the numbered life I cling to. I'm growing old and weary like time And I might not answer you son, The next time, if at all, you cry out for me.  

By the sea he sat quiet and low, Beholding the restless waves dance With the winds, whimsical and free. With utmost attention he tried to listen To the stories of pleasures and pains Whispered to his cold feet By the dampened sand. A small sand palace he watched With a fluttering flag atop; Having an essence of times; Times that passed too swift. He begged the waves to bring him back In their next turn, his days As a boy, playful as he was, Young, innocent and unchained. And the waves didn't break The disappointment; He begged again For one moment to cherish. He knew his tears couldn't dampen The sands more; Up he looked And watched the thin line between The sea, and the grandeur of heaven; The reflection, and the true montage Of coloured fissures amidst clouds majestic. He wished to be taken By the last ripple, to a place where He could have the patience To sit and watch; Where he could hear The voice eternal and serene; Where he could get a cure