Posts Tagged ‘spiritual’

Who says seasons change with time?
Who says we will die in the darkness?
Who says our prayers are only unheard?

Drop the fear, the anguish with time’s passage;
And let no stone be unturned if not by effort
But by the spirit of love till the eternity feels,
And invites us to join the chorus of the divine.
These stars are the saints, this light is ours;
Believe, and it all turns into light and glory.

Words fumble when the tongue feels the air;
Sight differs when the light fills us and lure
Every soul that comes across with the truth
Of this journey called life, this air called love.
We often give up just before we could achieve,
And close our eyes before the sight of fear.

Believe not in reason, but in faith for long;
For we are the soul; we are the song!


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It’s winter and there is cold breeze through the leaves
Hidden in the fog like a myth that will uncover soon;
and bells ringing on temples of ancient gods whom I know,
and hymns filled in the walls of my ear that pray the moon.
Does it all change? Does the face of innocence still glow?

There are flowers of the night still lying on my earth;
There are feathers that tossed in glory and filled the sky.
It’s not a tale, it’s not a night gone by and hours so slow;
A cult of colossal war hymn silenced by love and loss
That echoes between two mountains and like river flow
Into the ocean of life, to be born again to die and cross.

Between ignorance and ego all battles are fought forever;
Between the clever minds, the heart succumbs and shiver
with attempts to admire its own tale of honest moments.
There plays the violin by the sea side, there plays the flute;
There dance is frozen like an iceberg, and an artist paints
Like colours are eternal on this canvas of time together.

If a war can end with words, I will write in love more;
Than take shields of sorrow or settle on the shore.
My verse isn’t vast, but will fill the emptied soul of yours,
When your reason leaves you like a phoenix of course.

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Sand and stone flakes join and move fast into the eyes of time.
There is much music, the same ancient air that touched the genius.
I will not talk about the empire of gold that is dead, doesn’t rhyme
To our today, nor will pass to coming times with reason or rehearse.
It’s the same waves that touch the land of immortal art, of infinite
Life that segues through the rocks, through the music cast on stone.

There are percussions of chiseled moments, there is a known gloom,
When you stand before the Chariot of Sun with seven white horses
With wings of life, so ready for the flight and spring of life to bloom.
Sculpted emotions on these stones like a bouquet of eternal roses
Stand through the time, to reach every soul, to guide every journey.

I stand not like a saint but with infant steps, trying to feel the stone,
Feel the flakes, the wind from the sea that fills my vision and my soul.
To hear aloud the songs of my countrymen, touch the fabric of our own.
Like love, art too stands free, only eyes change and feel they hold it all.
If I could stay witness forever and tell this story to all lives that live;
This light that burns our ignorance, and endures more love to give.


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Who says it’s cold beyond the mountains that stand tall,
The sea that seems floating through the ages of hermitage?
The fear of losing the being with the wind that touched all,
Whistles of childhood, melodies of youth and vision of age.
All seems frozen in this arc of being an ancient, idle soul.

There is the violin under the oak, over the green grass;
There is music of the soul frozen in the air and dust
Like a blanket that gives comfort when our heart desires.
The bow is lying like a dead wood, like a lover’s note.
Frozen are the emotions here, frozen is the moment.
In life like in love, there too is a fragrance so divine.
No flower will stop war, till it reaches the unbridled swords.
No verse will be frozen forever, if has not touched your soul.

In terse and treacherous paths, often those that glitter
With honest efforts of love, life gets frozen like our master.


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On this side of the moon there is peace,
There is a an oak to rest my intellect,
And pass on to the blue river bank
For my soul to go nude and cleanse
All that has for years got engrossed.

This river is for ages sinuous and leads
All souls, all saints to the ocean of hope.
There are no pebbles to secure my feet,
But softness of white sand all around.

All memories seem like a mockery,
And all emotions, a wastage of time.
The ocean is not far, just eyes slept
Awhile and dreamt of eagled tombs.
On this side of the moon there is peace,
Some poetry as a prelude to unfold love.

I will write more verse than mere vision,
As my muse is my mettle to the show.
To no Troy shall this soul ever turn,
But with the blue stream slickly flow
To meet the tides where ancient gods
Preach precinct deeds of the dawn.

On this side of the moon there is peace,
There is a choice for cutting the clusters.
To fathom the fear of the self is glory
So needed and known to build our kind.
There is a swan so white to follow
In these troubled waters of our time.


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On the same crossroads where we met last,
I still yearn to see you come again, alone.
Let there be no humans, no old statues cast,
No dark doors, no vivid fates, just love alone.
These lives that we lived are lost like wars.

The Beatrice I know has now immortal wings,
And has grown more love than ever before.
Now nothing stops the marriage of our souls.
The Florence I loved long is now denied,
As trusted faces are jaunted in jealous eyes,
And fleeting souls lead and leave past buried.

I am here to sing and write for love so dear;
But cruel intentions consume cold intellect
That I believe was to receive trusted praise.
In desire there is the Beatrice I love again,
For no promise I can see without embrace.

I have kinsmen at home who are far now, 
With unknown fates and dwindling days.
I have my first books and an ancient ink pot
Wandering through the window for return
Of me, my verse filled in heart like an urn.
But I will not redeem, nor will listen to past.
I am a man and like my race shall move on.
This is not fate but an exile cast on my soul.

There are patrons now for me to demolish,
Enough grudge on the verse I wrote in rein,
And Satan that I saw through the homes lost.
There is still love that runs in my aged vein.

The statue of four seasons stands now,
Where we first promised to live and love.
There are grapes and graves lying beside
Like the mockery of our human dreams.

After ages we will be born and meet again,
May not be in Florence but in a far away land,
Where fate will settle down like the sea sand
And frozen dreams will live and love again.


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I stand now with the paradox of all times,
To be or not to be with measured minds,
Tattered clothes and less sold rhymes.
These men are like apparitions that move
Only in dark, ever pretending luminance.

The kings and queens are now in dreams;
The slaves pose to know more.
A malady so uncured stands and screams,
What profits the soul and more.
I will arise and go someday to the temple
Asking what mind intends and soul serves.

To have faith although is tough to test,
To render the verse is to inspire,
As this world will never listen to us.
There is joy in the game of fire,
But where will the flames rest?


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