In many moments,
I felt that sorrow and joy
cannot be repeated
that they sink deep into the soul
and drop by drop the blood falls
like a thorn piercing the heart of Keats's nightingale and the pain is agonizing
everything becomes lifeless, numb
Yet the possibilities of poetry remain
just as a thread gradually tightens
sinking into the fingers and staining them with blood
after pausing for a moment,
after tasting the sharp taste of poison
Everything fell to share of love or sorrow
A man standing at a distance makes more decisions
It was up to us to decide
Will the sun rise from your closed fists
Or Will it set behind your back
You will flow silently like a river
Even the groves and the wandering narrow lanes
Will need the dense shade of affection
The mind's solace was not in being stopped
On the high mountains
It would tink sweetly like the bells of a distant temple
Even at dusk, the evening flowed gracefully
conscious of own soft tenderness
Sorrow rested there like a traveler
It returns again toward liberation circularly, just like that slowly and gradually
Turning from brown to white from heaviness to light
I have heard that love and betrayal
are all hard time,
Just like lord Shiva, sometimes
is deeply engrossed in meditation!
Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day 馃槉馃檹 
