It’s often, quite often, now I pause among the unending roads;
Someone told it would end someday, without any whisper.
From the steps across the green acre, she would descend,
She would run again to me, or wait under an umbrella shade
At the same crossroad, where we could not then bid farewell.
Like a mad, old man, I fought against every wind that crossed,
And tossed my hair, among nights without stars or the moon.
I often looked at the window, even when hands were engrossed
with paints, brushes and bruises over the linen woven long back.
Who says death is an end, who says marriage is being together?
I often see the boy from my innocent days, counting the stars,
Hoping the moon will stay forever and then again looks alone
Into my eyes and say, ‘I see the moon in your eyes’ and harps
To convince am him, to repeat that it all was written by none,
But time wished this soul to find that memories are not wars.
Let time be born again, let darkness lead itself to light again,
Let every stroke when I paint declare, love alone will gain;
For it gives all that it has, for it leaves all that it holds so dear,
I wish when we meet again, I see you smile and me in tear.
The Soul's Whisper 