Sun is about to bid goodbye,
Waving slowly as it settles down.
Whispers in the wind are flying by,
As I stand at the end of town.
Now while there are many walking around,
Leaving a trail quite and free,
I hear a sound, so peaceful and profound,
Sound of Waves at the edge of the sea.
Nothing more poetic when nature rhymes,
Sound of waves, of birds, of air.
I feel acquitted of all my crimes,
Sound of Waves has something to share.
Beaches have always been one of my favourite places. Now you know why.
People are like chameleons, changing their colours as per necessity. While that is what we all do there is another truth which every one seems to forget or perhaps give somewhat less of a weightage…
It’s the truth about their True Colours. No one can hide their true colours forever. Sooner or later they show what they are constitute of. So here is to the concept of True Colours and when can we see them best.
Read and Enjoy!
Innate in the nature of nature’s most evolved,
Are the traits of a certain crawler.
Changing colours as per whim,
Common in both illiterate and scholar.
Tales suggest that they stand along,
When everything revolving around is fine.
It also suggests their absence and silence,
At the slightest occurrence of trouble’s sign.
Loss, poverty, alienation and sadness,
Reveals the truth of those whom you count.
True colours can never be concealed,
Yin plus Yang is the true amount.
And the walls of the old house were strong,
Standing and steering for generations now.
Each mark on them had its own story,
Each pillar kept secret the family vow.
But one picture caught my eye,
A portrait of someone long-lost now.
An unforgetful face, even if I try.
Bold, beautiful and righteous frau.
So many emotions did the portrait portray,
A genius for sure, who played with colours.
Some saw her happy while some grey,
“Life”, wrote the painter, “every single day”.
It is only as beautiful as you believe it to be and only as dark as you see.
Women are mysterious they say. They are never fully understood by anyone which makes them special.
Yes, words are not to demean anyone but to highlight the beauty of the mystery women carry with themselves. A similar beautiful encounter is penned below.
She was a painter who saw it all.
Summer of Spain, two thousand and ten.
I see a painter sitting by the street,
Face so innocent, eyes so calm.
She makes painting of those who desire.
Each stroke has its own charm.
I see her eyes as hypnotic as they are,
Looking at children playing in the alley,
My table and her chair aren’t much far,
Her paintings aren’t anything less of a story.
Oh and there is a secret, she keeps to herself,
Known only to a few like myself,
What you see is unknown to her,
While her vision is the painting itself.
In the chaos of how and when,
Knowing or trying to pretend,
Juggling between tear and mend,
A strife exists between mind and hand.
Divided by nations sharing the same land,
Running in the false race of being the better brand,
Oh whosoever played it really should have planned,
Strangely we live in what we barely can withstand.
World is the word around which I revolve,
Since stoneage none could solve,
Present globe laughs on us the evolve,
Craziness of the den is hard to absolve.
A story unfolds after a certain hour,
Devoid of a title and of time.
Reflecting those deepest worlds where,
We make laws of justice and crime.
Adjournment from the dark silence,
Ends up where we thought of being.
Mixture of obedience and of defiance,
Says the narrator to self while sleeping.
With no line separating sane from insane,
No one to know the right from wrong,
A theatre that delivers both smile and pain,
Through plays which seem short yet long.
Nightly Theatre which we see, has it’s very own song.