What is it that we truly want from life?
Who is it that I ought to be for you?
Which one would you want me to be –
a person dreaming or one in love with a dream?
Why do the clouds follow the monsoon wind
and sail across the vast stretches
of black, white, green and blue to reach
the mighty mountains of the north?
There even the haughty flesh of the sky
seems to be as pierced as those worn out ears
mistaken for a tiny gallery
of ornaments instead of a hearing device!
Why do the clouds shed those teardrops
brought there, tediously, from so far away
and feed the holy mothers known,
as the Ganges and sinuous Yamuna?
Will cowards and fear always demarcate the ground
and death or love, what shall life become in the end?
Perhaps it is love…
View original post 19 more words