Friday, 30 March 2012


She arrives like a torrent on the page,
She derives like a spring fest on garden,
Twittering around on love and motion,
It awakes me; the blue sky is her profile picture,
The more she sings, the more I press like buttons,
The friends’ zone becomes likes, comments, sharing,

Of the silent movement of the page,
The new age fills my heart with love and sequences,
Those are terms we are accustomed to use
For the expression on our mirrored objects,
Upon the threshold we are like a sphere
Living on wings of messages and deserved art.

Time passes on the page, I am not in touch
Of the message for which I want to have it sure,
As age and arrow are creators of more cycles,
And there is a gap I feel, and waiting is waste,
Preludes are made, yet no confirmation,
And I have to wait perhaps for another term here.

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