The monsoon is here.
The singing winds herald the rains,
sating the parched grounds,
fulfilling verdant dreams.
Laden boats will carry, once again,
cargoes of life
on swollen breasts of lactating streams.
Dark pathos of the sky is pierced
by fiery arrows of cognitive lightning.
Rivulets down my windowsills
flow to the sea.
The heavens weep.
You arrive
with the softly falling tear drops
to meet me in the deep.
clouds of a receding monsoon ride on the
soft whisper of the South Winds.
Petite ballerinas in white dance,
pirouette and turn, in tandem
to the music of guitars and violins'.
Time ticks away. The ocean yields
in the deep to a continuum
of space-time. Souls flow to a
confluence of non-dimensional fields.
Forces meet, stress and strain,
and dissolve in an equilibrium, unseen.
Unsung, a wild flower blooms
on a sunken grave in a waste land.
Symmetry of cascading sand
leaves no trace upon the surface.
The passing shadows merely reflect.
The grave-stone remains unmarked,
innocent of an epitaph.
soft whisper of the South Winds.
Petite ballerinas in white dance,
pirouette and turn, in tandem
to the music of guitars and violins'.
Time ticks away. The ocean yields
in the deep to a continuum
of space-time. Souls flow to a
confluence of non-dimensional fields.
Forces meet, stress and strain,
and dissolve in an equilibrium, unseen.
Unsung, a wild flower blooms
on a sunken grave in a waste land.
Symmetry of cascading sand
leaves no trace upon the surface.
The passing shadows merely reflect.
The grave-stone remains unmarked,
innocent of an epitaph.
Category:
needles....,
spring
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