woods today..

the bloom smiled,
the waft breeze apast,
the muck layered the stone
the shrivel of the snail
with the dead skin of the snake..
the woods were silent today
only the bees buzzed..
the dark of the night
camouflaged the rustic trunks..

the spoonful of full moon

its grace,
a marvel to trace..
its beauty reminisence
of thy presence..

greatness
in all its milieu
glory
with its ivory renew

of voices and echoes...

These voices of strenght
and meek,
these voices that prun silence
and spur distances,
these voices that crave,
to more say
than rave..
These voices that
are heard,
when inhibitions strike
the mid night oil,
these..
voices..
are..
bereft of..
hope..
hatred and brutality,
war in its magnanimity..
voices,
lost
and some
unheard..
voices..so unpredictable..
voices..
cry
and not a soul comes to soothe..
they burn in their ashes cold,
grave their live bodies..
kids and women and men
and brothers...
and then when all's done..
voices that heard in the silence
are voicing how it all should not have been done...

the big tot..

There comes a stall sometimes when the interaction between you and something comes to a pause but when you revive them, they come to your memory like they had never gone before.

Not many times have I confessed to this blog, yet everytime I sit to write in this corner of the net, it brings me back the reasons I think I should write.

There comes a whole medley of things about which one wishes to write. A whole lot has passed which needs words to live their memory coz if they dont they will remain like flittering pages that will fling open out of a rustic book clasped by loose threads of memory.About one, I am going to write today...

I saw this child in the train one late evening. His clothes tattered with the city's dust clinged to it. A basketful of things he seemed to sell and while selling those, he was selling his soul. His eyes had experiences to say and his face showed an age much greater to his physicality. He threw his basket onto the seat and carelessly flung himself over the footboard. Even tried a few acrobatics on the handlers.A typically street story I thought his must be.
When he had looked outside the train, his face showed an all knowing look.No place seemed to be unfamiliar to him. He seemed to be tired but somehow his will longed for somemore work..strangely..
Somehow i struck a conversation with him and he spoke to me about how he had left home in Rajasthan..he spoke about his lost childhood, his lost parents and how he was finding all that was lost to him in this already lost city of ours..
He seemed to pace with the run and managed himself all alone. To me and you he would have been a child of twelve but he knew much more than a lifetime..and the price that he paid for this was his lost innocence..