Of all the songs I never wrote
only the trash remains.
Memories of a yellow room
the morning after,
A foggy winter Delhi high
a disarray of rooftops
and some garbled music;
An orange coffee cup,
A piece of sky in the mirror
that you showed off so proudly,
Portrait of a woman in progress
testimony to a truce,
Just a taxi bill remains.

Pieces of your drunken smile
on a cold, rainy night remains.
Of all the poems I did send you,
just a goodbye remains.
Nothing remains after the songs
Just a strand of grey hair, may be a cigarette bud…
A small mirror remains.

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In Ruins

In Ruins short poem

Walking along this isolated path again, Treading heavily on those pavements once more; The Eternal Stream has had it slain. The rocks and pebbles have withered away along this shore. In ruins,are those hamlets far away. Desolated are those fields