Thursday, 5 April 2012


I have a sorrow of my own,
It comes prominently when I stay alone,
It gives a feeling of something I am loosing,
And I cannot determine what it is that I am loosing,
This sorrow burns inside,
This sorrow robs mind,
This sorrow gives charring spines,
In multiple domains of heart and mind, 
And even in loneliness I do not feel comfort.
Its strangeness flames mind, red pain inside,
As if I do not possess something, a vital necessity, 
That needs more expanding love for sweet pink rose,
And it will touch my heart and I will be absorbed in it. 
Yet I cannot hold that one and cannot even touch,
And in my rocking solitude, also in my busy moments,
I feel absence of that entity, like repentant fire, 
That burns secretly in mind, the sorrow I feel always.
And I cannot remove it anyway on my own,

I do not know whether it is absence of love,
Or loss of demands from loved one, or loss of muse,
Or loss of sporting sensation, loss of unnoticed breathing, 
Of a model whom I draw in mind, never opened in surprise, 
And I have failed to touch the very charms of living, 
But for every season’s concern, I am alive to go forward. 

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