The Lark and The Nightingale


A grassy knoll awoke on the forest floor,
On whose soft form the sun each day would rise
And fall again with the ebbing light of day —
Quite like the dreamy games our children play
With yarns of sunny wonders. One small tree
Stood bluntly on the very crest of noon
And cast its shadows on daisies which bloom
All year round; I was there in twilit hours
Of twilit days, when all through the town, it rained.
 It rained that day like it had never rained.
The skies fell apart in thunderous blaze and spark
And I was there when Fate concealed the stars —
There, where the nightingale first met the lark;
I watched the knoll, the tree, in twilit hours.

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The Flight


I was sewing together some words one day, marvelling at how unimaginative I could be when it came to words which would describe a scene. Suddenly, someone came in with a poem and said it was not perfect, said it was not meant to be read by the world.

I looked at the words and kept looking at them till I could watch each one just the way they were meant to be seen.

So I agreed to what she said: it was not meant to be read by the world, it was meant to be SEEN. I took my pen then, and proceeded to show the world what I saw.

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The Death Of Peacocks


Dear Friends! In modest tones, I hereby speak
Of certain deaths of birds of vibrant hues.
A little while ago, I saw them fly
Discreetly out of cages which trapped them
In lives of bondage — free, to roam the sky.
The sun that burnt their magnificent plumes
Could NOT, in death, ensnare their cherished cries
Unspoken — felt by crows who, newly here,
Could see no tinge of freedom; on each bough
Now hung a noose for any erring crow.

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