The debt of Love
Moved by the immense kindness shown by a friend, he said with tears in his eyes"I don't know when will I be able to repay this debt".Patting on his back, his kind friend told him not to consider it as debt but as Love.See the thing about debt is that it can be paid with or without interest but may bother the bearer with thoughts of uncertainty, guilt, restlessness and the so like but Love is unconditional.It is multiplied and no interest can be paid on love because it is Infinite.So my friend the debt of my love can be payed only by spreading it bountifully.©ainlya
Her soul was witheringLike the winter treeHis was ablazeLike the flaming seasIntertwined by destinyWhen they did meetTheir souls unifiedAnd it was Spring.©ainlya
#PoetryWednesday @mirakee @writersnetwork#Tetractys #nature #love
Feelevery single daythe infinitebeauty of Mother nature blessing us.©ainlya
#PoetryWednesday @mirakee @writersnetwork#Tetractys #Hope #Believe
Seethe rayof sure hopewhich is obscuredamidst the chaos of uncertainty.©ainlya
Our Imagination flies with the fuel of thoughts we put in our subconscious.©ainlya
Doubt is the threshold of one's own affair, if not proven it drives to despair.©ainlya
Love is liberating our souls and intertwining our destiny.©ainlya
You have fractured my heartInto pieces comminute No amount of splinting Can hold it like you.
वीरान रास्ते वियुक्त सपनेमेरे लाल ईंटों वाला घरअब मेरा न रहा।कैसे मैं अपने बचपन मेंइस आंगन में खेला करता थाकैसे हर कोई मेरी चिंता मेरी फिक्र करता था।अब मैं बूढ़ा हूँपर मेरा घर तो मजबूत थाअब तो ये गिरने वाला हैइसमे मेरा क्या कसूर था।एक नए मॉल कोइस जगह पर आना हैमैं कहा जायूँ मेरा तो न कोई ठीकाना है।काश कोई अपनाआज मेरे साथ होताअब मैं ही बच गया हूँमैं अकेले ही रोता।धीरे धीरे से तबाही का वो मशीन आयाऔर जब उसने मेरे घर को तोड़ातब उसने मेरी रूह को भीमार गिराया।©ainlya
Nobody knows The worth of your loveOr the depth of your hateYou feel all aloneAnd tired of the waitCollecting memories To make yourself smileNot realizing thatRedemption is the only wayStringing the moments To give yourself JoyThat peace you will achieveOnly if you conquer the pain.©ainlya
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Mural on the wall.
I was there at the same spot,The mural on the walls intact,faded only from the edges.My knobbly hands carrying memory of that solemn art,my waverly mind,the memory of its artist that drowned me in chromas of their constancy.Felt a pull amongst the broken sequencesWinded in the facades of faded love.©azekiel
The silent goodbye.
A rainy July evening waiting for the bus under the broken stand.She was carrying a saffron umbrella.I was already drenched from head to toe.Our eyes met,I was shivering with cold and the bus was nowhere to be seen.She walked up to me taking me under her umbrella and smiled while looking down."Thank you" I said.She kept smiling. Soon the bus arrived but it was'nt mine.She took my hand and shifted the handle to it.Without saying a word she got in the vehicle turned back and waved a silent goodbye.
Domestic violence, from a different perspective. Also, its high time we raise our voices against the same.#mirakee #writersnetwork #pod #jazmin #aria #ceesreposts #domesticviolence @mirakee @writersnetwork
The Art of Abuse.
These carvings on my skinTinged with red and purpleAre the stories written in Braille,For the fingertips:Mine and yours.I usually paint themWith colours that resemble my flesh,When the outsiders Trespass our privacy.You're an artist,A passionate one-You don't let your art fade away.I wonderHow lucky I amTo coexist as your museAnd your masterpiece!I try deciphering the talesHidden in these etchingsSometimes And suddenly, my visage Gets streaked with blackBut, I wipe it all off,Because, you detest that colour,And I detest your detestations.I sense your gait, everyday As you start climbing the stairs,And strip down to my authenticity.With the silence of cowardice,I await the arrival of you,Your artistry, andYour art supplies: The clawsThe fangs And the limbs.The reason why I'm keen on volunteering, always,Is that these creations bring you joy.But, to tell the truth, I can't do much when I'm Shackled in an empty roomThe entire time,Can I?©ashleymiddleton
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“Dhaani! Dhaani! Where’re you?” yelled her middle aged mother. Exasperated, she wiped the droplets of sweat from her face with her cotton saree. Dhaani was unlike other village girls, headstrong and everything a village belle isn’t. Last night, she had overheard her parents – “Our Dhaani will be happy with Lakkhan. He’s a good boy and their family has no demands. Thank God!” No one heard Dhaani’s budding world crumble in that calm night. She tiptoed to a corner, grabbing her jute school bag. Brimming with tears her eyes had a strange expression of resentment and rage. The long night was like lull before a storm.
A shrill cry of shock by Dhaani’s mother pierced the tranquil morning. Just where the first rays of the sun landed in their courtyard, lay tufts of curly hair. Shell shocked Dhaani’s parents exchanged nervous glances. The wavy hair strands were Dhaani’s, but she was nowhere to be seen! “Dhaani! O Dhaani!” they choked fearing the worst. Before the village hustle bustle ensued, Dhaani had to be found.
“Dhaani! Dhaani! Where’re you?” her mother ran frantically around. Abruptly, she stood still in her track, upon hearing muffled sobs. Alongside the mud walls for their granary, sat Dhaani, head down and trembling.
Dhaani, means Dhaan, light green raw grain of rice. Whether it was sheer coincidence or unknowingly doing justice to her self-worth, Dhaani had taken refuge beside the granary that stored threshed grains. In her strange haircut, she looked rebellious. Dhaani resorted to this drastic act to save herself from the impending marriage. “Who will marry a lunatic looking uneven haired girl? If an insane haircut can be of some help, so be it!” thought Dhaani as she chopped off her curly hair length with a sickle.
Giving vent to her mixed emotions of anger and hurt, Dhaani’s mother rushed towards her sobbing child with a raised hand. She froze midway even though she was consumed in a fit of rage. Anticipating a spur of the moment thrashing from her mother, Dhaani quickly picked up a worn out white nylon grain sack to shield herself. Her trembling fingers slid into the many holes in the sack. The childish fingers with dirty cuticles proof of Dhaani’s young life. Like the raw light green rice grain, her life was green and new, and unfurling.
I don’t have friends, and I never have bothered a bit about it; somehow, the people I bump into are either too much for me, or too little. No one has ever tried to pace with mine, and unless you have someone who can walk in the same pace as you do, you can’t tag them as friends, can you? Because that is the whole purpose of having someone with you, for you—to have them by you all the time, no matter what. Of course, I know people upon seeing whom, I smile, people whom I run into in case I run out of cash, or people whom I can ask for guidance to how I should spend the rest of a family day together, but they are no where near the range of friends, and I like them that way. To me, a friend is no less than a love, or maybe, my definition of what a friend should be is too strict, but I like friends this way.- Nandha Kriskar