When a flower wilts,It hurts the bee,So does it bother the thirsty,When the last drop of the river dries,Oars are no longer worthy,Does the boat forget its journey?Does the plant remember its child?Or the bee forgets to rueThe loss of a good thing in its
I often miss our communication,When we would speak so muchThat the world would evanesce,When we would hold each other’s gazeFor so longIt would unveil our longingTo be with each otherSo closeThat our breaths would mingleAnd fail to make out Yours from mine.What’s mine is yours,What’s
Why I hate to fightIs not the hurt,It is actually the aftermathWhen she pulls herself under a shellAnd struggles to trust me again.I was a monsterSome unfortunate minutes ago,It is so difficult to convinceThat I am not the same man,I was merely at my lowest
I can’t hold your attention anymore,You always stop to read what the other book has to say,Constantly jumping between conversations.I am often forced to wonderWhich one do you hold the mostDear!I can’t make out What your mystery smile tries to sayAnd whose words bring you to
Lost boy! Lost boy!Where did you go?Your world seeks you,But you barely know. You went up the mountains,Didn’t tumble down,You liked it up there,Why’d you touch the ground? You raced through the meadowsAnd rolled on the grass,You sang new songsAway from the mass. You went
Write your obituaries,The time has come,You might not make it,To the sun. Say your prayersAnd go to bedHope to wakeFor the morning bread. Believe you oarThrough the nightAnd take your boatTo the light. Things you didAll your lifeAnd what you couldn’tRan rife. Your awry plansAnd
If I could just think of one thing,The one thing that sent me tumbling down the hillI might try to beat around the bushBut I will always learn what to sayWas it the edge that slipped on me?So that I could fall in the tightest
Sleep, sleep now,My sleepless nights,You have earned it. Haven’t you toiled enough?In the scorching sun,Your body is burnt. The mountain has moved an inch,The world, shaken by your faith,Repose! Splotches of your blood Are all dried up,They will heal soon. Lie down on this complacent
At times it goes quiet,Quieter than usual,When you go away,It feels as ifSomeone turned off the lightWhile I was still reading.I sit in the darkFor a whileTo make out the edgesOf everything around,Only to discernHow nothing is in The shape of you,This solitudeIs a poor
When she hurts,They close their eyesAnd pretend to be – the blind men,She is in pain,Can’t you see?What happened to you, my kind men? They cajole her oftenTo their command,“Tired are you? Sleep-tight men!Need some food?”Maybe all the time,Isn’t that right, famished men? She is