The waves rolling on,
A fistful of sand they wish to bring,
To their mother ocean to keep.
In a bid to pull them over, the mother spills the sand.

Piling upon the wishes rises a restless whim,
To gather what cannot be held,
The futility and the yearning in their hearts,
The waves roll on to touch newer heights.

Their screaming voice makes for an unyielding song,
Carrying silence in the depth the mother watches on. An embrace what we mortals will never know.
Their music ebbs and fade on that note.

-

So less so more the voice drifts near,
Calling my soul through echoes I barely hear,
A forgotten past, but connected to my veins.
In faint whisper I hear the raindrops fall.
An unstirred silence where the winds bend low,
Smoke ascends to where I see no clouds.
I search for echoes, but they recede far
A land of ruins beneath a lost star.

-

When the sky turns green and the grass glows blue,
And the spider’s web is a crimson nest,
The hornbill bird plays peekaboo.

When the ocean’s edge meets the edge of the earth,
And twilight brings the light of a star,
The songbird sings an immortal tune.

When the clock goes wrong and time goes true,
The unchanged song turns into new,
The unchanged world shifts its hue,
And each day brings hope with a curious note.

-

Fragmentary but unified,
the rays of sunlight,
in a single image of the star in a sky,
marking and obscuring
the moments simultaneously.
The dainty daisies of the morning
are alive to enjoy,
Of what use is the joy, if only
for the sake of a day?
So true and sweet,
I am compelled to stay.

-

Whenever the bell tolls, a songbird sings,
A temple atop the hill, where the branches rest, is its nest.
Of camphor and flowers an offering is made,
Of coconuts and fruits, the bird chooses its own.

When daylight fades and incense sticks burn,
Of sound and song, nothing remains,
In silence, the idol hears,
The music of his heart.

As the breeze flows, a hallowed nest of grass,
Holds the refrain of a woe.

-

I came to pour my heart on the land of hurts, to feel,
The sand beneath my feet reflected a glimpse of me.

-

keeping the peace.

-

A gulf of lives adrift on a boat,
In search of shores to call their own,
Puddles of longing, hope floats on paper boats in a row.

-

Pale as dawn, a paper by the lamplight,
Waiting upon the breeze to float it away,
A man by the lampshade dreaming about his life,
Fragments of summer folded in the air
Dried flowers in between the pages, folded in with the years.

The pebbles on a pond, the boats on a puddle,
Inked letters vanish to form a circle.
Long sheets of paper pull curtains on time,
A memory scratched in ink becomes a certificate of death.

Between the lampshade and the breeze, a paper lies folded,
Who writes for whom none has the slightest clue.

-

Handcrafted by me.

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