And after all that we have done and seen, We wait for some magic to undo what has been, But its all already lived and gone, Past, after all, is just a part of a journey, which starts before we were even born.
We are living an infinity, We are probably not even alive, We are just memories, Of the man above, and in us he smiles.
He makes us breathe, and he makes us think, in us he lives and in us he loves, gives us life.
Living between the deaths as a witness to a silence between the words. Leaves had fallen: yet a dry tree was still flowering exuberantly under a scorching sun. My day has come, but I was far away from shores of
The beams were ready to collide on the bars of hate. The blast was coming with adjectives. It was immortality of a street which was going to survive. New herons will come to wade in troubled waters. Pure white. But
As a poet, I may dream and conjure the conversations And in mute silence, the unexplainable, There is no word to describe this state of things, They sailed along things on their own fashion and course of ordinary interludes, On