Alone do we come, alone do we go.
Only a handful of souls we get to closely know.
A handful of souls that we call friends.
Break not these bonds, always make amends.
On a silent night, I lie supine; gaze at the moon that glows and stars that shine; marvel at Mother Nature’s intricate design; and return to you, sweet li’l interest o’ mine.
“Lack” of it or “lakh” of it – a single letter can change a life.
The former will easily kill a spark; the latter will make it rife.
Many a dream has gone in vain, thanks to words that sowed doubt.
Had Sachin heard such cynical words, he’d have been long out.
What are faces and expressions? They are but transient masks.
Some salutations and pleasantries are but feeling-less words.
Man’s truths dwell deep. Who fathoms and asks?
Most like superficial sweetness and bother not to see inwards.
Do we know when and from where it’d stem?
Does it spare a life even if (s)he were a gem?
Memory of the departed stays back as a totem.
Their souls leave us, but we never leave them.
What happened to me today might happen to you morrow.
I’ll tell you all about it so you can avoid great sorrow.
Listen to me, friend; and use it to gain vision.
For one man’s life is another man’s lesson.
A single flow of thought in four lines should I write.
Condense the stream of ideas – I try with all my might.
Sometimes ABAB, sometimes AABB, and sometimes in ABBA it rhymes.
With metre, with rhythm, and with cheer, I hope the verse chimes.
Butterflies come from pupa and it’s not the other way around.
Growth at all levels happens only if experience and learning is abound.
Among things that give us perspective, the days gone form a good part.
Irrespective of the distance we reach, the glory lies in where we start.
I sit at home all day and croak like there’s no morrow.
My voice resonates loud. My peers think I have the best voice.
What I yell is divine music. All else is just terrible noise.
I get all I want in my well. Knowledge why should I borrow?
Like a sponge my heart has absorbed emotions and
experiences I’ve gathered and read about all these years.
Even when the brain silences me, and my feelings it shuns,
the sponge withstands not and drains itself as tears.