Resonance of Rain

The town,crowned with the grey clouds,
As the morning passed by, so did the noon,
And the rain drenched breeze welcomed the eve,
With the neat mess, little afresh, the monsoon.

Seemed like, the rain poured a poetry,
As the perfectly rhymed quatraints.
The pause appeared like a couplet,
Is it an ode or just the season's own ballad?

The rain rained over the tired city,
To spring out its lush green portrait.
She drizzled over the unheard & cornered thoughts,
To spill them over the blank pages.

The rain silenced the hustle of life,
With every fall she made.
She quitened those million chaos,
With the rhythm of every beat, she made.

The town watched the magic, the monsoon brought,
Along the southern wind.
Like re-reading an old letter
The rain's presence is glimpsed.

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One story,
towards the end,
With one character,
vivid roles,
and many refrained.

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हमसे पूछा गया "तुम्हारी कविताओं का मुसाफ़िर है कौन?"
मैंने जवाब में कहा,
मेरी कविताओं का मुसाफ़िर वो है,
जो मंज़िल की तलाश में निकला था,
और सफ़र में आसमां के नीचे सो गया।
और सुकून को तलाशा तो,
नज़्मों और ग़ज़लों में खो गया।

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The morning sunlight,
making its way through
the window,
Sparkling up the stacked books,
on the desk,
in a row.
The pen stand, the wristwatch,
the glasses, are sun-shined.
They knew, the sunrays,
through the mango tree,
supposed for an hour may be,
Yet they wait in a neat mess,
they long for the dawn,
And may be that's what time teaches.

-

A letter, in anticipation

The letter to be received,
Brings in, the answer of well being,
Of beloveds afar,
Of memories unseen.

It brings in, the joy of time,
From the folks, unmet for years,
From the land unvisited,
From the house, where love used to gather.

It brings in, the hope to hopelessness,
From the dawn to dusk hour,
Wrapped in the warm hues,
Wrapped in the comfort of shelter.

The letter to be received,
Brings in, that one 'Yes', as a happy ray,
Which perishes the gloom,
And re-reads the day.

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The Town at Hills

The town at hills,
is dwelling in peace,
Away from the crowd,
towards the best being.
The morning rests there
with clouds wishing good,
Enlightening the ecstasy,
uplifting the mood.
The dawn dawns in,
peeping behind the ranges,
In the span of hour,
the breeze and wind's path changes.
There resides the belongingness,
emotions emoting amidst,
Along the Folklores, lullaby
and many long lost stories.
Evening bids farewell there,
night falling in soon,
Under the stars bedded sky,
adorned by the moon.
The town at hills,
shines in the dark,
By the river burbling,
by the mountain's ever soothing spark.

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The Empty Road

The empty road isn't empty enough.
It holds the conversation, unended,
The stories incomplete, the tales untold,
The silence, unsaid.
It holds the willing long walks,
At the dusk hour of the day.
It treasures the twilight and a cup of tea,
A little solitary along the way.
It holds a melancholy of the orb,
Post the untimely rain.
It preserves the breeze,
that blows through the trees and make it's way.
It fruits the first fall off the cycle,
The first win of the race,
The first walk of the toddler,
The rain's first drench.
The empty road isn't empty enough,
It is the moments of many firsts,
Serenity of solitude in the crowd.
It is fulfilled emptiness, along the sunburst.

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The Doors

The doors of the home,
Are the pathways, known-unknown,
Leaving behind the shelter,comforting,
Opening up to the unseen horizon.

The doors of the home,
Are the remnants of unending laughters,
Some weepings, a little bit of gloom,
Millions and millons of read-unread chapters.

The doors of the home,
Trail behind one's unseen self,
Ones darkest kept secrets,
One last hope of the help.

The doors of home,
Are more than just wooden board,
Locking in the cocooned life,
Unlocking the gaiety, amidst the hoard.

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The Departed Station

The station that is crossed by,
Without a halt, without a stay,
Holds a story that is unheard of,
Holds the emotions that are carried away.

Slowed down journey, almost a pause,
Yet chooses to be in motion,
When the station nears,
Eyes choose to behold the picture, the moving destination.

No one alights, no one boards,
No one chooses to look beyond the bar.
The ones seen on the platform,
Watches, yet another hundred stories to move forward.

The station that is crossed by,
Does not remain a station anymore.
It caresses the untold tales of many
It shelters the movement and its folklores.

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A Noon with the Rain
Somewhere in mid April,
The room rested in silence,
Windows opened wide, curtains flew strong,
A thunder, a storm, knocked the existence.

The southern balcony, its hanging flower pots,
Trembled with the drizzle drizzling in.
The blue sheets draped on the doors,
Breezed knowing no leaps, knowing no boundaries.

The clouds' collision above,
Thundered the orb below,
The wind chimes, chimed in harmony,
Of the room, with the wind to follow.

The droplets made its way in,
As someone welcomed their presence,
Gliding, dripping, flowing smooth,
Leaving it's trail on the window panes.

The room still rested, yet in a mess,
A mess, pretty unknown yet comforting.
In April's sunny summer,
The rain bore the message of enduring.

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