150. Impressions on the sand.

I have reasons to be sad

Reasons that are known only to this restless heart of mine

You can call them good or bad

But they would always be understood by one I call divine

The uphill struggle of mighty vision

One that my tender childhood thought to be true

Dreams that I saw as a kid

Those that within me always grew

A stream of mountain

And roof on a hilltop

Playful evenings

To which there would never be a stop

The pink fountain

Behind the garden of fragrance smell

Where flowers blossomed

Even on steams and shells

A beautiful stranger

With hairs like the darkest night

And wisdom to define and explain everything

That stood as far as we had the sight

The love in its innocent form

Rebelling the world with a sheer storm

The moonlight on a river bed

The smiles won and tears shed

A heaven right on the door of hell

Sublimely casting its mesmerizing spell

And thoughts that were rain drops

Battling against their full stops

The realities that never struck

As rose petals we continued to pluck

Jealous we left the world astray

In whispers of love and freedom of pray

************

Ho yakin na meri baaton ka

Toh mere khoon k katre ko chuna

Aakhiri boond tak usmein

Dard ki nishaani hogi

Silvaton mein waqt ki

Khwaab k who bikhre manzar

Unmein bhi kahin tuti huyi

Sapnon ki rawaani hogi

Ek raat hai ye anjaani si

Mere bhi sar par, tere bhi sar par

Kahin bhad rahi hai

Kahin ghat rahi hai

*****

PS - There have been a lot of things happening on my end. The ones that have left me disturbed, damaged and bothered to an extent that I find myself completely changed by the tide of what recent days had offered me. I would not like to get into details of it, and somehow that has stopped me from expressing myself in every direction, blogging being one of them. If any of my old readers manage to reach this post, I expect them to leave a comment so that I know I was being heard by those I considered mine.

PPS - The last four lines, is a dedication to a diary that I found at my old home while looking up for something else. The diary that was so meaningful, so beautifully written that I cannot imagine anything documented in the same way as far as I recall. It was half a century old almost, belonging to year 1974 and beautifully jotted down in the handwriting of my father. The last four lines rest same in his one of the prose there.

Picture source