To be loved like you have never been loved,
you must love like you have never loved.

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Because why unnecessarily worry your folks who sit a whole continent away, with the everyday tragedy of heartbreak?

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Everyone here,
hears to reply,
not to understand.

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Because when it's real,
you can't walk off.

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If only things got repaired
instead of getting replaced.

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Poetry whistles the ink of our thoughts
through a hymn of voice,
and pitches them in stanzas
of staggered verses.

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I just wish to sow a few
seeds of my words.
Not much, but just enough so I can nourish them with the tears shed
while harvesting the hope, amidst the storms and thunders.
One word a day, in the plantation,
so the plants grow into trees, consuming light.
I wish to create a beautiful garden,
where a tired soul could
stop by under the shade of words
hanging on the trees of hope
to find some peace, and continue
the journey after a brief halt,
renewed with a fresh hope.

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After all, replaying the freshest memories before they fade away and become indiscernible haze, is better than burning the place where you live.

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Jazbaat ki us syahi ko kaagaz pe likh kar to mita doge,
Magar ye batao janaab aap use dil se kaise utaaroge?

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Shikayat hai unhe ke hum ab unki taarif nahin karte,
Kaise samjhayein unhe,
ki jo har dafaa lafzon mein bayaan ho sake, bas utni si taarif kaafi nahin.

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