By the wish of the Heaven, We are framed together Like that of a photograph. You are alive in my heart for ever. Lover's absence feels like the Winter, But O my dear! I only feel the Summer As the warmth and spell of your love, Are not transitory but perpetual. Whenever I behold at your effulgent eyes, The void between life and death dies.
A poet is a traveller, On the road of poetry, It's full of unforgettable memory that thrives for eternity Sometimes in the journey He sings in soliloquy, Sometimes he has a dialogue With his peer along, In the guise of dramatic monologue, Sometimes he pauses In between the lines, In silence he breathes, At times the journey flows like the wild river, With the yearning to meet, the ocean sooner for ever, Sometimes it is captured And rolls round and round, In some dying lagoon, Has to wait for the rain, to flood it again For flowing over the boundary To resume that journey.
LUSTER OF LIFE... I have seen life bloom, sprout silently, In the cold, dark thick skin of lava, A tiny foetus from Nature's womb, Riding on the back of airy nymph, Wandering through dark cloudy curtains, And through some desert's boiling vapour, Protected with the coating of sun's radiance, Perhaps gliding and surviving though the passage of frozen Pole, Lands slowly with the help of feathery agents, To acclaim the magnanimity of life. I have listened to the subdued music, Of the Winter's falling yellow leaves, They whisper into my curious ears, Not about the agony of decaying or falling apart, But of the harmonious hymns of soothing Spring, They are happy to pave the way for their successors, To decorate the bare trees again with new colours.
Poetries are bleeding some metaphors in a secret box with some bloodstains of lexis, They're defining about sonnets and a haiku of syllables with a velvet ribbon of love.
But somewhere at the end of verses, some agonies and sufferings are hiding their veracity from the world, But they can't conceal them totally because those crimson stains are looking so bright inside an ice cube tray with the touch of metaphors.
Still he is asking me "What is a poetry, can you define it ?"
And here again I pause.
//Sometimes, you can't define them but the sentiments in those eyes can explicate correctly but with a small hesitation//