You are that flower,
I still keep in my diary..
All dried, but the smell dwells within!


Though it doesn't smell like, It used to be !

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The colours of that dried flower have now been imprinted on the pages of my book and has formed beautifully esoteric labyrinths in which I get lost every now and then....

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Her deprived love is like
That dried Withered flower...
which she preserved with care
Between those sheets..
Fragrance burying slowly
On those wrinkled leaves..
Moisture of her tears
Fail to lose their hope...
'Cause it was not only him...
What she lost was 'she' ..

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Once upon a time,
this dried flower
was living a dreamy love story...

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old diary.

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Colors from a dried flower
everyone who encounters me,
finds me colorless, dead but living or
maybe living but dead...
But your fragrance
Ahh! it's still there
Every time this cold breeze
hits my face and
makes those petals flutter
I smile at your unseen presence,
that fragrance has become
the essence of my life
my identity, my soul
and all of me...

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I dried the flowers you gave me and kept it on my book. That way, my mind can still remember you even though my heart doesn't.

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फूल खिला जो कल यहाँ, आज हुआ वह धूल
यों ही तुझको, एक दिन, लोग जायँगे भूल
'इंद्र' की कलम से

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Some memories are like dried flowers that we have kept in between the pages of a book and have long forgotten about it.

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There's a soul that wanted to be him for a long time but he never knew,
The beautiful soul was about to get him to make it easy for her and at last her heart dried up

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