I wish I were a seasonal bird,
That travels flying around the world,
With sweet companionship of a partner,
Whose heart knows nothing except,
A Deformed Angel
Sometimes life gives us severe shock,
Undermines the plans and does block,
The ways of wisdom leading ahead,
Reveals the hands that secretly mock.
The Mobile Roses
Children are the symbols,
Of hope, of innocence, of vitality,
Add colours to life,
With shades light and dark,
The Daughter Of Eve
Who sorts out scraps of sustenance,
Bending upon the hump of smelly trash,
And picks up the sucked eaten bones,
Stuffs them into spacious juty sack,
Why I Write?
When indelible memories of the past,
Torment my heart and mind; I write.
When mist floats in front of the eyes,
The dreams are not merely dreams,
Though they are often considered the fantasies,
And futile vain imaginings of the mind;
Yet they portend the stuff for the future.