To the mountains

I want to go back to the mountains,
This city eats me up,
I cannot feel my own soul,
I cannot feel my own breath,
The sounds of chaos turns me deaf,
The winds of commotion take away my soul.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
Far away from those people stuck in cyclic tracks,
Towards those souls which soothe me,
Pacify me with their serenity,
With their depths and profoundness
Far away from monotony, boredom, dullness.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To hear my own voice,
Locked in those chambers struggling to set free,
I want to hear it echoing back from the peaks,
Ringing back in my ears,
Making me realize that I am alive

 

I want to go back to the mountains
To talk to myself,
To tell myself that bounds, pain, expectations
Are mere realities that the whole world is suffering from,
Some things which are meant to be there
To add flavor to the savory termed as life.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To scream out loud,
To tell the world what I hide in my depths
To open up all my secrets,
To tell all my stories,
To the winds, the clouds and the streams.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
Because I am spending sleepless nights,
I fall asleep and abruptly wake up to nothingness,
To emptiness filled with insecurities,
Of times that have passed
And the times that are yet to come.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To be a child again,
To wave my legs hanging down from the cliff,
To enjoy and frolic around the clouds,
To face my head towards the winds,
And let my hair flow with them towards infinity.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To listen to the sound of the winds,
And the music that nature crafts for me,
To lie down and watch the sky grow
As dark as ever,
And the fireflies as bright as ever.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To feel the mist over my skin,
To feel the congregation of clouds,
Coming to me, embracing me all over,
Fathoming what’s within me,
And landing me in a place where peace lives.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To encapsulate it all which is visible to the eyes,
Either in my words or in my canvas,
To sing them my symphonies,
Symphonies which includes them.
Symphonies which includes me.

 

I want to go back to the mountains,
To just be there for years, for centuries, and for ages to come
And never come back,
To be there at those peaks,
To shine with the sun rising high,
To shine with the moon and the stars.

 

I just want to.

 

An eternal loop

Don’t wait for me ever.
Don’t disturb the symphony of your life.
Don’t think of me all night.
Don’t remember my chatter in the day too.
I won’t come to you for all.
But I will call you one day.
When?
You may ask me next,
But don’t think of it now,
‘Cause I won’t tell you,
I couldn’t.
Because I don’t even know when.
But I will call you one day.
Which day?
Let me catch the phrase,
The day,
When the world will lose its vividness,
When the stars will subside its shine,
When the flowing water will not make those lovely sound,
When my heart will resign,
When the birds will not sound so good,
When the winds will divert its flow,
When my hair will not float in the brooks,
When my feet will get swollen,
When the blue of the sky will get dull,
When the sunshine will hit me hard,
When I cannot tolerate the heat out of the dark,
When my head will throb and will diverge apart,
When the tigers will get tamed by those monkeys,
When the music will get dull,
When the rhythms will have no melody,
When my words will become hollow, thoroughly null,
When the yellow will not please me, nor will the blue,
When the rainbow will lose its curve and the butterfly will lose its hue.
See I told you.
That I still don’t know when I will call you.
But I will call you one day.
When the moon will not talk with the night and will swallow its words within,
When the droplets will not stick to the ground and run away,
When the trains will forget the directions and rains will forget the play,
When darkness of black will turn white,
When the brightness of white will turn gray.
See I promised you that I will call you one day.
I will call you and will ask you if you know a world so new,
Far away from this whimsical souls,
Having new textures, new hue,
I will ask you to tell me if you know how to go to that place,
You will do some spell and tell me that you still don’t have the way.
But then you will turn a plate which is too heavy to lift upside down,
And then you will say you have corrected my world,
My place from where I came,
My home bearing ground.
And then I will be afraid cause I have left it far away,
I want to go to a new land,
Through a journey which passes through infinite bays.
But then you will sing me a song,
Telling that the world is nothing but a loop,
The threads sometimes are taut, sometimes they become too loose.
But you know that magic which can stretch it all tight,
You will be my harbinger of bliss and turn my land upright.
And then I will deny but you will throw me again to that land,
I will get pleased by the blossoms and smell of the muddy rain.
Within the loop, I will travel again,
And then again we will come to the promise,
Of calling you once again.

Respite

Those rails,
The small gate,
A swing to fling,
That’s all makes her place,
Her owned cage.
She has got used to it since she was a little birdie,
She has started loving it now,
Spending each passing day,
In a fixed routine.
Getting up,
Fluttering her wings inside the cage,
Eating those seeds and then,
Jumping in those small puddles of water,
Which often got filled in the curves of the base.
She has always been a frolicking soul,
Calmness, and composure,
She doesn’t know how these are defined.
However, she knows how to spell ferocity,
Spontaneity.
She is never a soul to be chained,
To be bound to a single place.
She has that urge,
Of playing with the far spread clouds.
She has the whim,
Of dangling the twigs
Make her music through those rumbling sounds.
What she wanted is to own is that place in the far off sky,
Above those equally ferocious clouds.
She has always known that she could tame them.
Spending each day inside those limiting bars,
Her curiosity trailed towards the higher slope.
With days passing she used to think of the parallel world,
Where the boundaries cease to exist,
Where your world has no pain but glee.
One day she planned and left for a stroll,
Peeking outside that rails of hers,
She got out somehow and flew.
She flew through the heights,
Exploring paths and trails,
Embellishing it all with her music,
Screaming out,
Screaming loud.
She has never thought she could fly that high,
She could cry too loud with her spirits,
And get so near towards the end of the sky.
She flew over the fields,
She flew over the sea,
She took rest near the creek,
Sometimes near the beach.
She picked food from varied places
And savored the delicacies.
What she loved is the vividness of the cultures around,
The age old beliefs,
The folklores,
And those new sounds.
She met few companions,
Who shared with her their stories,
She wrote that in her memory,
And kept their images imprinted on her temples.
She has always believed that,
People often meet in journey multiple times.
As when they are introduced to you,
It’s the preamble to the story that is yet to be derived.
She knew she has to return to the cage again,
As she could not leave her owners in grief,
But she took it all,
Lived it all,
As a respite in brief.

Someone

There is this guy in the crowd,
Whom she meets daily,
He smiles with his crooked teeth,
And stumbles down the alley.

 

When she stands at the bus stop,
He leans over the supporting crutch,
And somehow manages to catch the bus,
The crowd stares at him as if they bear a grudge.

 

There is no single day,
When she fails to see him there,
In rains, in summer, in chilly snowy winds,
He struggles to catch the bus, taking him out of his snare.

 

She is now habitual to his face,
And his unbalanced pace,
She sometimes smiles back at him,
Sometimes, she wears a stern demeanor, unusual to her grace.

 

She can’t think of a reason,
What makes this man, so punctual, so keen?
To board the bus and reach his destination,
Struggling with his body, so insalubrious and lean.

 

Then often she switches her mind back,
To the heap of work, to her family, to her life,
She tries to compose her thoughts,
To the journey with hurdles, rife.

 

This chain of thoughts repeats every day,
There are new stories, new gossips, new tales,
But constant is the crooked smile of the man,
Who boards this bus every day.

 

Seasons passed by, so do years,
There in the same cogwheel,
She travels, she walks, she lives,
And the pictures roll as if there is some reel.

 

But, one fine day,
She notices something strange,
The bus-stop scene looks incomplete,
Missing are the crutches and the crooked-smile man.

 

Days passed by, so do seasons,
Without exchanging any smiles,
She boards the bus then,
Wondering about that man, riled.

 

One day she gathers her thought,
And asks people about the man,
The man who used to stand with the crutches,
The man who used to struggle to get into the bus lane.

 

To her surprise,
The people haven’t seen him any day.
Those who accompanied her in the bus for years,
Chuckle, as if she is telling them another tale.

 

They tell her,
That her tales are so unpredictable,
The characters are unique,
And the sequences are too realistic to be a fable.

 

The chain of thoughts repeats again,
There are new stories, new gossips, new tales,
The crooked smile of the man is replaced,
Now there is this school girl who accompanies her every day.

 

Meteor Shower

 
Scrolling her news feed,
She then got around to read,
A line there said,
There will be meteor shower in the eve.
The sky is always her passion,
The apex of her dreams,
Relieving her from worldly concussion.
In her semi-conscious sleep,
She dream of the sky,
She dream of him,
Those iterations enough to turn her high.
They have miles between them,
But the souls were close,
Staring at her screen in a closed chamber,
She craved for covering the distances,
But her apartment constrained.
They were talking then,
From the escape hole, that keep them intact,
He read her mind,
Her thoughts, her hidden enacts.
He asked her to secretly move inside her den.
Close your eyes,
He said,
The journey was about to begin.
She wanted a magic spell then,
And he did it fast,
Taking them to the land of their togetherness,
That was then miles far.
She felt the chills,
They moved on a count of three,
The room slowly vanished,
And they landed in the land of trees.
They were there,
On their countless nights,
That was a dreamland,
With far stretched field and fireflies.
Her urge to lay on her back in the grass was fulfilled,
She smiles,
A sense shivers her till she turns nil.
The vast sky was there,
The ceiling has disappeared,
His magic was true,
She was there with him, and begin the ceaseless stare.
They stared the sky,
The ceaseless meteor fall,
The hands were clutched tight,
The sky started to revolve.
The big dipper in the middle,
Below was the pole star,
His hands curling her waist,
Her happiness is beyond par.
He send her the songs,
Those took her even deep,
To the land where they met,
Where the nights weren’t for sleep.
She felt his smell,
He felt hers,
Though they were miles apart,
The magic traveled.

 

The Statue


He rides a horse,
In the corner of the city’s park,
All worn out dark,
Still, shines with sparks,
For once,
He was a soldier in the armor,
The pride of the battalion,
A price charmer,
He sees the squirrels,
Squandering the dandelions,
He stares the boy on the wheel chair,
Amongst his companions,
He feels relieved that,
He is not alone hampered,
But then empathy trolls him,
In his mind, curbing him clambered,
He gains the rushing blood,
As youth runs for him,
In the marathon kludge,
Though this occurs rarely,
It gives him pleasure,
He feels so young,
Unwrapping his treasures,
Beneath the iron sheath,
He covers a century,
Full of clashes,
And a buried treasury,
He always wonders,
Who will own the four leaved clove,
Who will listen to his saga,
Find his wealth,
Hidden in the dark, beneath him,
Yet to shimmer its glow.

The last night

And it feels like a day before,
When she entered her alter-home lurking behind the door,
Twelve weeks as the letter says, she is going to live in this city,
Create new stories, in the town, city’s vicinity,
She saw from her window, the sky reaching towers,
They made her eyes gleam as her dreams settled down par,
She has always thought of reaching the heights,
Mundane life is never her plight,
She started her first day dressing up in the tinge of orange,
Discovering the land, people, weather, all once strange,
Strange things always carry the mysteries,
The light lurking through the darkness, the sun coming from the wild clouds in spree.
She has an insane way of dealing with the new,
She wants to taste the life at once, brewing it in her favorite stew.
The city is an amalgam of wild shimmers and serene showers,
She loved the way people walk on the lanes, agile gestures reflecting power.
She tried to tune her rhythm with them as day passed,
She sometimes felt like an alien disk hovering across mars.
She traveled alone,
She traveled far,
She traveled with her soul-alike,
She traveled across the altars,
The more see wondered, the more she felt the chills,
That now she lives a half-round away from her native hill,
She walked on her colored pairs and covered the roads stretched far,
In the rains, in the sun, in the signals, across the bars,
Her mind swayed in the rhythmic notes of the classics,
In earplugs sometimes fell when she heard the rushing traffic,
She often loves to hear the sounds of the vehicles, revving down the alley,
The signal’s bell,
The skates board trails,
The cheering performer,
The lofty rope walker,
The chatters of the mob,
The clusters of the swarm,
The shimmering lights down on the distinct road,
The pole star sticking to its place on hold,
The signboards with new marks,
The flower baskets hanging from the barks,
The spokes of the bicycle wheels,
The tapping of the elegant heels,
The masts with high flags,
The skyline, the highest tower in the stretch,
The green grass with yellow flowers,
The misty land with sprinkler showers,
The big black squirrel performing Martian arts,
The merry couples cheering wide playing cards,
The distinct convergence of the sky and the sea,
The harmony, the strings, the boundless words coming aside the tree,
The seagulls flying high,
The wallets turning down dry,
The shops, the bars, the clubs, the streets,
The tinge of new tastes, the savories from different cuisines,
The symphony on the radio,
The poetry on the daily notes,
The smile from people unknown,
The first glass of beer, with the one whom she now owns,
The fall, where you wish to drench high,
The color of zeal, that never let you dry,
The collateral stream of water and frolicking feet,
The ice cracking in the wine glass, the fire cracking in the dree,
The stars shining above them, when she took the first move,
The winds moving past when he subdued,
And she couldn’t stop thinking,
The infinities are bigger then they know,
Sitting in her chair,
Staring the city,
The last night,
In its unusual glow.