Cataclysm...

The tree falls dead in the sometime around noon... perishing thoughts...of a deluge...

Ahh..the crawling time...which is fleeting now, feels eaten away... Numb leaves peek at the ground... overshadowed by the sky...
Roots imbibed soft bristles..sways... of a genial amour.. The chime of carillon, It felt, when the leaves spoke to each other...blushing in their whispers...

Relevance fades...disappears;

All that remains is the gusty wind...which turns back a leaflet or two...bringing to life a vignette....in it's indelible embrace...
And...
..the boughs surrender...to the caustic grains of scattered sand...stooping...never to rise again...

Curled..

Invisible..

Eclectic..

Long, long back, he told me that prosaic words sound better than poetic ones.. Prolly able to put forth a blended array of shades at the same time…

There maybe different skies in various contours…but the drifting clouds are the same ones.. in little words.. in a glance maybe ..or a breath? I speak to you, as I speak to my soul...in aparajita and anusua….and a world with tiny bundles of joys… Written across pages of my eyes…by this river.. by that sea…

In an ursine utopia,
Smothered in sweet lullabies,
Felt in songs past mid-night,
Touched in the gentle foray into the summer,
Trickled time..
Vagabond and slobbered..

~
Love,
Me..

Abysmal..

Along came a needless meaning of simplicity.. a well-thought spindle of ideas...which came undone...and I wrote in syllables, in which I sang once, remembering the odd, accidental fragments of rain and streams.... and Mahananda beckoned me this time, along with the emptiness of it's drenched bossom...where I lay, where I played, where I swam...As the July sun shivered, it's fervor bequeathed... I grasped the the jazz of the gleaming rays...hiding it in my eyes..

Hajar bolaka jeno pakha nare..
Duronto jhornar nrityo bahare..
Sagorer dheu aachhriye more..
Pathore Pathore..

Keu bole bhalobashe..
Aalingone..chumbone..
Podoseba shikto shinchone..

Ami boli..
Pathorer'o aachhe mon..
Aaghate na jani kokhon..
Premer porosh bojhe..
Shobujer aalogochhe..
Tobu rikto ekhon..

Soulstice..

There are times when the emptiness of stones comes as an irony... You suddenly begin to identify with it.
You start to perceive things closing in on the walls of your eyes....eyes which seek just one person... It's not always the need for a finger to hold and kiss..more so a faraway longing on the insides...within the soul...of a "soul"... Suddenly, things start to form a maze where you're lost yet found when the fingers curl in around you....when the soul sets inside you....and you regret no more.. Coz you don't have the fear if having let someone down...of having pained someone... No one needs someone...It's their affection that makes one long, perhaps...As I settle down into a dusty corner near an old table... My pen drips of blame... the detest one feels for one's self when they hurt their own soul...bruise it, maybe... I can't undo things... and my fingers come reeling back inside my heart..clenching...a palm faraway..