We poets are farmers still,
ploughing our mind in the invisible field...

The clock struck twelve,
the midnight started swinging...

Slowly, I creep into your thoughts,
bringing about a transformation...

Every step upwards means,
the leaving of something behind...

As the falling rain,
prepares the earth, for the future crops...

Time moves at an unceasing pace.
The passage of time, brings in its wake...

The state of darkness
accelerates our delight in the sunlight...

Mom tells me to finish my homework quickly,
When I ask why?, she tells me...

The birds I see in the azure sky,
appear as a victim in the hand of pride...

The stillness of the floral profusion,
in the land of imagination...