The life that oozes out in small strips of minutes often gathers courage, braces up, chugs, and starts a soft run home... and then the wind blows. Time heals old wounds and makes ways for new ones to grow... and then the wind blows. In hurried glances, I look at those who chose to stay behind, ensuring that they stay there... and then wind blows. Every time I have a page inked, I turn a new leaf to begin anew, and the wind blows. Every time I keep the beads aside and chose to bury the dead, the wind blows!
If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.