Posts

Song of begger

-
 The world doesn’t belong to beggar, Nor to hands forever raised in plea. It belongs to the dreamer, the doer, To those who dare shape destiny. A beggar waits on empty streets, Eyes searching for a coin, a crumb, But time is merciless, swift, unseen, And silent winds remind what’s to come. The earth belongs to the worker’s stride, The farmer tilling the stubborn land, The artist painting with fire inside, The builder with calloused, steady hand. The world belongs to those who climb, Who stumble yet rise with stronger will, Who write their name on the walls of time, Refusing to bow, refusing to still. A beggar’s cup may echo hollow, But courage fills the heart of the brave; Tomorrow waits for those who follow The path they carve, not the one they crave. The world belongs to the seeker’s voice, To hearts that burn with noble flame, To souls who walk with tireless choice, And claim their place without shame. The world is not a coin to spare, Nor mercy tossed upon the floor; It is a ga...
Post a Comment
Read more

18th September

-
 The morning breaks with a golden hue, A sky painted in endless blue. Birds whisper secrets to the dawn, And memories linger, though time has gone. The breeze carries stories untold, Of laughter, sorrow, hearts once bold. Footsteps echo on the old stone street, Where past and present silently meet. 18 September, a day of light, Yet shadows linger from the night. Moments etched in fragile glass, Fading slowly, they never pass. A child’s laughter, a mother’s gaze, Sunsets that set the heart ablaze. Every sigh and every tear, Marks a journey through love and fear. Leaves fall gently, a rustling song, Reminding us where we belong. The river hums a tender tune, Reflecting the silver eye of the moon. Time moves softly, yet it flies, Painting truths in quiet skies. We hold the past, we dream ahead, On paths where fleeting angels tread. Candles flicker in the evening’s hush, Shadows of moments in a gentle rush. We write our stories, word by word, Hoping someday they will be heard. 18 Septe...
Post a Comment
Read more

The air I breath is older than my age

-
 The air I breathe is older than my years, it drifts through mountains, rivers, and valleys, a silent traveler carrying stories untold, the whispers of dawn, the sighs of twilight, the prayers of generations wrapped in wind. It enters me softly, unnoticed, unseen, yet it is my first companion, my quiet lifeline, a thread weaving body to spirit, anchoring me gently to this fragile world. I never ask it to stay, yet it lingers, faithful as a shadow, patient as the sky. The air I breathe has touched distant shores, kissed the blossoms in spring’s gentle embrace, danced with fireflies in summer nights, and brushed the frost from winter’s pale lips. It knows the laughter of children at play, and the aching sighs of those who grieve. Sometimes it tastes of rain, heavy and kind, sometimes of smoke, sharp and sorrowful, sometimes of pine and earth, pure as prayer, reminding me that all things are borrowed, and nothing remains unchanged. In each breath, I receive a gift: life renewed, heart...
Post a Comment
Read more

Take me far away

-
 Take me far away, beyond the crowded street, Where silence breathes softly, and dreams gently meet. Let me drift past mountains, their crowns touched with snow, Into valleys where whispers of lost rivers flow. Take me far away, to the edge of the skies, Where dawn paints its colors and starlight still lies. Let me sail on the wings of a wandering breeze, Over oceans unbroken, through forests of peace. Take me where sorrow forgets its own name, Where joy burns eternal, a bright steady flame. Let the burden of yesterday fall from my chest, And cradle me kindly in places of rest. Take me to gardens no shadow can find, Where time folds its pages and frees up the mind. Where flowers keep singing though no one is near, And silence itself is a song one can hear. Take me far away, where the night is a friend, And every horizon feels closer to end. Where hearts are unbroken, and spirits can soar, And I am not weary, not lost anymore. Take me far away, but not just to roam— Take me to place...
Post a Comment
Read more

The life of begger

-
 Upon the city’s restless street, Where echoes of wealth and footsteps meet, A figure bends with weary eyes, Beneath the open, endless skies. A bowl of tin, a hand held still, Not asking much, just fate’s small will. The world rushes past in painted hue, Yet none pause long, not even a few. The beggar’s life is stitched with thread, Of nights half-hungry, dreams half-fed. He sees the world from shadows cast, A ghost of futures that never last. Children laugh, their voices soar, Merchants trade from store to store. But he remains, a silent plea, A mirror of lost humanity. The rain falls hard, it wets his skin, But hope still lingers deep within. Perhaps tomorrow, bread, or light, Perhaps one hand will see his plight. Each coin that drops rings not of gold, But of compassion, brave and bold. For in that sound, a truth appears, A life is more than hunger or tears. He dreams of days with steady ground, A home, a fire, a peace profound. Yet still he wakes to street’s harsh song, Where n...
Post a Comment
Read more

My lost voice

-
 My lost voice. It left a small cave of ribs at dawn, a hollow that smelled of rain. I searched under pillows, between punctuation marks, inside the pockets of my old jacket where I keep winters. I offered paper boats folded from the thin maps of my throat, each with apology. At the market the fishmonger hummed; his song filled the alleys. A child chased a kite that knotted itself in the wind and laughed. I listened to the echo of other people's breaths, like a bell, trading the syllables I owed the world for pocket change and hope. My lost voice learned to be careful — it hid behind curtains, it practiced silence like a monk counting steps, slow and steady. Sometimes it peered out through a cracked window and mouthed the weather, watching sparrows argue about direction like small, winged philosophers. Once, I heard a radio speak its name without shame, a word folding into my chest and making fire. I slid toward that warmth, fingers soft as evening, but the word slipped back, acros...
Post a Comment
Read more

The bright night

-
 The night arrived, but darkness did not reign, For silver moons cast light upon the plain. Each star was burning, quiet yet so near, Whispering secrets only dreamers hear. The sky became a lantern vast and wide, Its shimmering veil could never hide. Mountains stood still, their shadows aglow, While rivers mirrored the heavens’ flow. Owls sang softly from ancient trees, Their notes were carried on gentle breeze. The earth felt calm, a sacred breath, A pause between life, time, and death. The bright night offered a peaceful hand, Guiding the lost across silent land. No fear, no sorrow, no haunting sound, Only wonder circling all around. The fields lay drenched in silver beams, Turning reality into dreams. Every leaf gleamed like polished glass, Every second felt too brief to pass. Wanderers looked up with aching hearts, Finding in starlight a place to start. The weary soul found hope reborn, Awaiting the promise of radiant dawn. The bright night whispered: You are not small, For you...
Post a Comment
Read more