Will you…

Will that winter shine on your face 

When I look at you, look at your heart like I do everyday?

Will someone’s song wet your ears,

When I hear your song of words, hear it everyday.

And will you come out of your boundaries,

When I don’t know what I have to say.

Sailing the Stars on Paper Boats

They said we were scared,

They said that our hopes were dying trees.

They told us to close our open hearts,

But we showed them how we wanted to be free.
We told them we were voyagers.

Riding unknown waves.

We said that we wanted our hopes to die as we wanted new ones to take their place.
Yes, we said, we were scared.

But who is not in this vast ocean

We drove down tough roads, looked for newer and newer hopes……..we showed them the power of life.
What are we but sailors?

Sailing the moon on paper boats.

What are we but explorers?

Learning to love the stars

What are we but our own hopes….

The vagabonds smiling in the dark future.

[ This short poem has been inspired by someone very close to me. I wish that he may forever remain who he is and keep on smiling.]

A Cloud, A Sky and a Girl

​Surprisingly the bird sang a song which he had never heard. He, a soft cloud floats across the skies, looking down into the sparkling eyes of a myriad live which often stare at the blissful oblivion that awaited them. He soars with the wind who promised to take him to places he had never seen. He speaks to the songbirds which promised to find him a solace. He soars with his own melody in his head. But it catches him unaware and like yellowed pages from an old book, he falls.

He falls into the hands of a waiting girl.

Her eyes marvel at him and she asks, “Who are you?”

He replied-“I am nothing but a mirror of your thoughts. The thousands of thoughts that you hide from the world! I am what you want me to be.”

And she said, “Be my friend! A friend who will never leave me!”

And with those sweet words, she broke the cloud’s heart and also put a smile on his face.

The cloud walked with her. The walk through the unknown paths, through Misty forests, of the Ancient mountains, beneath the fabled trees and also the Springs weather cloud head cried. Yet he does not take his hand, he reaches out but she faded at his touch.

She turns to him and with a lonely drop of tear rolling down my cheeks comma she asks again- “Who are you?”

” I am nothing but you words again I am whatever you think me to be. If you think I am the bluebird soaring across the sky – I am the bird. If you think I am the horns of the devil, I am his horns. If you think that I am your saviour, then your saviour I shall be.”

“But….but you are just a soaring cloud!”, she says. She runs with her back towards him. She turns away from the starry sky from where her friend had descended and cries out-“You are merely a cloud floating across the sky! Who waves to the sun, who sings with the birds, who never comes down to me!”

And as she uttered these words, the cloud rose higher and higher. And as he prepared to vanish in the unknown expanse of the skies, he leFt behind the dew drops sparkling in the moonshine. And in his dreams…in his great dreams…he asked her….

“Who are you?”

“I am the sky which always looks at you, thinking whether one day, you will look at me too.”

“I will.”, he whispers.

“You won’t!” She screamed, “you won’t because you kept on trying to be my most beautiful thoughts. You always wanted to be what I wanted you to be and nothing more!”

“No,” he whispers “I never was what you wanted me to be. I was a cloud without rain, a mouth without words, a heart without a soul”

“Am I that cruel?” She asks.

“You and your beautiful heart have conspired and stolen myself away from me. And believe me young traveller, you knocked the right door but the owners were not home”

He wakes up. He wakes up under the veil of mystery in the star studded blue.

The blue in which he learnt to love and  learnt to live.

As he looks up at the beautiful bliss of darkness, he waits for a summon.

“I know who you are! You are a cloud who came down for me!”

“Yes, a cloud whom I never knew.”


If there had been enough words to write about then perhaps nobody would have written them at all.

But there it is again.

The scratching of the pen on paper, the sound which can never fill the world ot creates.

If we had the power to fulfil our creation, we might had stopped creating long ago.

Perhaps words themselves would not have been here .