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Posts Tagged ‘writing’

And you play so beautiful that the air echoes all life,
No clouds, no darkness ever I see since I fell in love.
That same melody of my muse, those same whispers
In my ears which say to love more and as time move
I see every face cold, carved with an unknown grief.

Someday when the chords are in tune and stars smile,
We will play again that music we made under the moon.
Who says we will die? Who says this world can end
The promise we made to that god and can forget soon?
We will but only stand to hold each other for a while.

The winters of this life, the draught of a thinking mind,
The tides of tortuous dreams that make the world blind;
We will forever live and love, we will forever now play
We will meet beyond the clouds where no humans reach.
The air would be cold and I promise our love will teach.

Thousand souls will play the greatest music for love ever;
You be sure, we are here to sing our dream and live forever.

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In love be sure there will be a thousand mutiny,
A thousand whispers to see our soul transcend.
Who tells the journey, but hearts we often meet;
Among surreal shades and strokes, an artful blend?
Who sees the light among the stars, if not in agony
Wish, not those million fears, but for those beat?
Why decipher this decrepit mind? We are forever.

Tossed by the fate, torn by the winds of change,
Among the coldest winds, often the best blooms
From the most adorable abyss to touch the breath.
Among the colossus of greed, love quietly grooms
As our soul erects each fear into a dissolved henge.
In times like these, trust the times more, live the faith.
Who seeds, who harvests the golden yield forever?

Into ash, who says we’ll surrender when we are done;
We’ll arise again to let love live even when we are gone.

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Wish I vacate this stage soon enough, soon again
For more darkness to cover and in quiet, give birth
To more light that will guide every passerby in tune
With dusted steps leading to the sepulcher of a saint.
Who says death ends and life blooms, who dreams
Among the surreal symphonies of a sundry sand dune?
Who in life could defy the destined end with a mirth?
Who could stand through the spring and fall again?

In tempests we don’t tremble, with ignorance we do,
Among the rainbow streaks we seek often differences,
We fall to rise again and we often die, to be born sane.
He who speaks is not a monument of time, nor fences
The fear and hope of our soul, nor seeks what is true.
He who listens to the wind and touches the life of time,
Stands taller to laugh at every feat, our ego attains.
We will soon someday meet again and greet the dew.

I am neither old, nor crawling with the softest dream;
I am time, join me to sail through the unending stream.

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Met an old potter today after crossing the forest;
Old enough to lift the clay that was seeing him
For a long time, with water turned vapour now
And holding still to the air that touched it long ago.
And he greets me saying ‘here comes the mad man,
Here comes the one who couldn’t water the clay’.

Only the heart knows the dream it lives and loves,
Amid springs and falls that the river breathes.
Such emptied souls that multiply more emptiness
Such unflinching evenings and darkness around.
The potter, the wheel, the clay and the aged art
All will now shape this soul for sure salvation.

The decadence of those smiles will lure the obscure;
And the mad man will walk to find again the same clay.

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