Being the silent air in the violent storm
In a night setting call
In a game setting false
Crushed up some story, I may
Hope that I wasn't at all.

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Life is not a balanced game.
Life is a balancing game.

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A secret message of life

World is too big
But nothing other than
a charming gimmick
With its big doors open to every new lore
and a small key
Like solutions to all illusions
Never the less we all fight and flight
Sometimes you are wrong and sometimes right
Every ups and downs
Like holes and hills
Play an important role thats fills.
Urge to grow flood our mind in childhood
As an adult we crave for the child to be back
With endeavor chasing ecstasy.
Life is like an empty envelope
In it some letters got store and some got tore
If I disclose
A secret message of life will no more be a secret

-

Black is silence
White is peace
Black and white is the eternal bliss

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My city

My city in space
Of frantic rat race.
It's fast pace,
Melting on every urban face.
The nomadic school boy
With Untied shoe lace,
Late on occasions of
Every school days.
Confused me! In search of brace.
The tall buildings like sky palace.
The road like giant maze.
The commotion it's vivace.
Luxurious life fascinating fancies.
My city, My solace.

—Swapnil Paul

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Homing pigeon

The dimension of doom,
Of war, detonation and death
Just a curse, no cure.
Sprang from the infinity
On the shoulder with a gust
The white bird Carries the letter,
The ventilation of throbbing heart.
An Array of reconciliation .
My conditions in ruins
Nothing to feed the peck
Except the love with a tender touch.
It's claws clinging, vocal on the rails.
Drove up and down cutting thin air .
The sound of flapping wings
become feeble with disappearing sun rays.
The homing pigeon returned to its master.
I picked the letter of sedimentary hope,
And went back to the broken brick cage
To lit up the oil lamp.

—Swapnil Paul

-

My sheet of paper was hungry for ink
I wrote two words
but it wanted more
I kept on writing
And created a lore .

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Grey Pilot [Part - I ]

In one Canadian Autumn
Along the facsimile of ferns and feelings.
I had them both to hold my hands
And now it's only one

The other empty hand run down
The unpainted grey in the toddler's sketches.
In my every breath, the famous past
Comes like a crane
To weave white flowers
In the chandelier of megalith.

In which eternal dawn
Did the pilot leave his flight
To snatch the grey.
And disappear in the howling storm
Of no return.

[ To be continued ]

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A stone and a feather

Braving the strong wind
A stone
Mocks the feather
To be weak

When the waves
Wash the shore
It's the stone
To drown the first
And admire the feather
Standing still
Above it

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One more scribble

The humble man
Mumble every night
Jumble me into shamble

My mistake!
I gave him my address in rumble
Every now and then my inside crumble

Now I leave this
For you to unscramble,
Knowing it's a double trouble.

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