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Every sunrise feels older now, like it’s seen me fall and still returns— I think that’s what love must be. It doesn’t ask for explanations, doesn’t wait for me to be ready. It just shows up— steady, unembarrassed, pouring gold over the ruins. The kettle hums,
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Let me fly a thousand miles in my dreams, As only in dreams, I feel truly free. Let me wash my sins in rivers of pure streams, Where fear of drowning claims no hold on me. Let me not be judgmental, Of the quiet virtues of those with tender hearts,
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The sindoor does not just rest on her skin— it transforms her. Her face, already a garden of laughter, suddenly carries the radiance of flame. Every curve of her smile glitters brighter, her eyes bloom softer, yet stronger— as if the sun itself leaned closer to watch her shine. In
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Each to their own orbit, bound, Each to their own center, wound. Each in their own sphere, confined, Each in their own spin, defined.
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For an observer, I do nothing but watch what has come of my people. Blinded by golden hills of greed, heedless of the agonised screams. Of children whose skin peeled back from flesh, and brittle bone ground to ash. People who shed tears for forgotten wars, buried beneath concrete and
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Just as adversity came into your life without knocking, Joy will too, seep into your life again like sunlight on a Monday morning. You will brew a cup of coffee, and it won't be your survival liquid, But a thing you are thankful to sip on - it
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Please be a little slow, oh summer ! In sunflower fields , sleep a little, oh summer ! On mangoes and jackfruit logs where bees buzz and stuck With thy warmth lives bloomed with the grandeur of luck. Shaking of the drunken drowsiness of Spring . All in a tune those sun soaked afternoons
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This time last year, when my best friend and I were discussing how pretty sundresses were, I didn’t anticipate a trend starting in the United States, where young men and women have become equally obsessed with colourful, graceful sundresses. In a world where we can all wear whatever we
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Your eyes. Your beautiful brownie eyes. They remind me of the season autumn . The way they shine feels like falling leaves in golden skies. Soft as whispers that comfort my soul, A warmth that stays and makes me feel whole, A golden fire that makes me feel comfortable. And every
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Here’s to reaching out to an end of me, Stranded by multitudes of blockades. The rift came along, and I survived, Not by my own self, but supported by their deft hands. What’s unseen, though, are the silent touches of friends. They saw me, even when I was
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I pressed my head against the cool glass of the window, my gaze cast downwards, focused on nothing but the clouds that clung together. Trees flooded with purple balls of blossom intertwined, swaying in the light breeze, as tiny sparrows planted their delicate feet upon the thin branches. I found
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Bumblebee cold, Bumblebee blue. If I boot that around with a leather laced shoe. Bumblebee buzz, Bumblebee fly. Once I find out the main reason why. Trapped in narrow margins, between anger and hunger. I can see outside but can’t get there Someone shut me out and won’t