'Let me write the instance confronting the death and I shall be the happiest man leaving', that's how I feel about writing.And about the Poetry; " His poetry, like your floating clouds of feeling, are but the blue drops of raining thought. To heal those pains of convention and fear; Nothing but the truth and nature to share."
Hardly he could see the sun And the eyes misted by fog. Walks and walks this frozen lad Until the unknown terminal. Who could he rely upon? Accompanied by the woods. Singing a song of folk, Nothing but walks on
A carrot, you’re nibbling, yes the carrot they give a radish painted red, but not very deep deceiving ourselves we’re enduring the taste. Lets pursue the real before it extincts. This is the life, live it man. This is the
A child plays by a window-pane in his home nigh a floral-land; A dancing rose by a dell caught his eyes with ruddy spell. Like a wind, runs the boy to the lawn, casting toy. Flutters beside some fallen hoes
Nothing I shall do, to be a wisher; No wishes to make. Never mind,my friends, The”Making Wishes” prose won’t run so long. A wish precisely persists as a wish all along, Until I’m propelled by the blowing wind of wish
Sometimes these feelings inside me, tickle so hard at the core in my body, physically. But where ? I don’t exactly know. Somewhere beneath my head ? or perhaps knocking under the chest ! but it does, and frequently. The
Alone in a forest in the night Whom would you, my friend, remember? When fear of the death traces your mind Whom would you, my friend, surrender? Whom do you think you owe this life? And whom would you say