The Quiet Guest

Death comes not loud, but soft as rain,
Falling on roofs of mortal pain.
No trumpet cries, no thunder speaks,
It enters where the candle leaks.

It stands beside the patient bed,
And whispers dreams to those half-dead.
No fury flames within its eyes—
Just peace, like dusk in tired skies.

It takes the heart, yet leaves the face,
Untouched, serene, in marble grace.
It steals the breath, but not the soul,
Which slips away beyond control.

No foe, no friend—it simply is,
A hush between two worlds’ abyss.
And when it comes, the stars lean near—
To guide the lost through dark and clear.

So fear it not, this final art—
It ends the ache, but not the heart.

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Beneath the noise of restless days,
There lies a shore no wind can reach.
The soul sits still, beyond all praise,
Listening to truths no words can teach.

The stars are ancient, yet they burn anew,
Their light a whisper from the void.
We chase their shimmer, thinking it true,
But find our meaning self-destroyed.

Each breath a bridge from now to never,
Each dream a tide that ebbs unseen.
We cling to time as though forever,
Forgetting how brief we’ve been.

When thoughts grow tired, the heart awakes,
And silence hums a deeper song.
It tells of losses no one takes—
That what we seek was ours all along.

In that still core where echoes cease,
The self dissolves—and there is peace.

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Bhai Dooj: A Thread of Light

The morning hums with saffron air,
A sister waits with gentle care.
Her silver plate with flame aglow,
Holds every wish her heart can show.

A mark of red upon his brow,
A vow of love renewed somehow.
No crown of gold, no jewel, no art,
Can weigh as much as her beating heart.

They laugh of days when both were small,
Of paper boats and monsoon’s call.
Those childish fights, those silent cries,
Now shimmer soft beneath the skies.

The world may change, the years may fly,
But bonds like theirs will never die.
For in that fateful lamp’s embrace,
Shines every memory time can trace.

The diyas burn, the stars look down,
Their light a gift, their love a crown.
And Bhai Dooj whispers, pure and true—
“I live in her, I live in you.”

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Whispers Beneath the Withered Moon

Mist crawls along the forest floor,
A pale breath from an unseen shore.
The branches twist like aching hands,
Guarding secrets of forgotten lands.

A lonely owl begins to cry,
Its voice dissolves into the sky.
The stars blink once, then fade from sight—
Something wakes beneath the night.

Footsteps echo, but none are near,
Only the rhythm of mounting fear.
A door swings wide with a hollow groan,
Though every house lies still, alone.

The wind hums low, a funeral tune,
Through empty fields and the ghostly dune.
The air tastes cold, like ancient stone,
As time itself begins to moan.

And in the hush, the dark grows deep—
Where shadows walk, and memories sleep.

-

In dawn’s first light, her rivers gleam,
Whispering tales of an ancient dream.
Mountains guard her crown of snow,
While deserts sing where hot winds blow.

Her heart beats in a billion tunes,
From city lamps to silver moons.
Temples rise, and minarets call,
Faiths entwined — embracing all.

The farmer’s song, the weaver’s art,
Threads of soul in every heart.
In crowded streets or forests deep,
Her timeless spirits wake from sleep.

She bleeds, she heals, she learns, she grows,
Through joy and pain, her essence flows.
Her story’s ink is sweat and flame,
Yet love endures — her truest name.

Oh India, vast and endlessly new,
The world’s old soul lives on in you.

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দীপাবলি

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Whispers on the Pitch

The field is a page of waiting green,
Where sunlight writes what dreams have been.
A ball arcs high—time holds its breath,
Between soft life and sudden death.

The bowler’s run—a measured art,
A rhythm rising from the heart.
The willow hums its ancient song,
Of fleeting fame, of right and wrong.

Crowds roar like waves against the shore,
Yet silence echoes even more.
The crease—a line, a fragile fate,
Where courage learns to hesitate.

Dust and sweat, the scent of rain,
The spirit falling, rising again.
A game, they say—but more than play,
It shapes the night, redeems the day.

For when the stumps fall, hearts remain—
Bound by glory, loss, and pain.

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The Witch

Beneath the moon’s unblinking eye she stands,
Ash smoke curling through her hands.
The forest hums her secret name,
And stars lean close to watch her flame.

Her hair, a river dark and deep,
Where midnight creatures come to sleep.
Her voice — a thread of silver sound,
That wakes the bones beneath the ground.

She brews the wind, she stirs the rain,
She whispers joy, she summons pain.
No crown, no throne, yet all things bow,
The night itself her shadowed vow.

Once mortal heart, now wild and free,
She dances where no soul should be.
Her laughter bends the oaken boughs,
And time forgets to count her vows.

For power is not what she took —
It’s what the world, in fear, forsook.

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The Eternal Forest

Beneath green arches where the sunbeams fall,
The forest keeps its ageless, breathing peace;
Its whispers through the leaves shall never cease,
A temple vast, beyond man’s fragile thrall.
The mossy stones recall an ancient call,
Where roots entwine like prayers that never lease,
And every branch, with solemn-laden ease,
Seems crowned with time’s unending festival.

Yet men with iron hearts and burning hand,
Defile the hush, and scar the breathing earth;
They cut the veins that nursed their primal birth.
Still, through the ruin, trees in silence stand—
As if to teach, through patience and through pain,
That life will leaf and bloom and rise again.

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Whispers of Stone

Beneath the sun’s eternal gaze they stand,
Temples carved by faith, not mortal hand.
Their pillars hum with breath of old,
Of gods once fierce, of hearts once bold.

The bells awake the sleeping air,
A thousand prayers are tangled there.
Incense curls like dreams unspoken,
Rising through light where vows are broken.

Each stone remembers chisel’s song,
A sculptor’s hope, devotion strong.
The silence hums, a sacred sound,
Where earth and heaven share their ground.

The wind retells forgotten lore,
Through sculpted doors and marble floor.
No voice replies—yet something hears,
The rhythm of the pilgrim’s tears.

For faith, like flame, may flicker thin—
But temples guard the fire within.

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