Life is not all about pleasure. Pleasure is an extremely relative term. If there was no sorrow/grief/pain, there would have been no pleasure. As Ghalib puts it: koī vīrānī sī vīrānī hai dasht ko dekh ke ghar Yaad aayā What differentiates dasht(jungle)from ghar(home)? It is either the Virani(desolation) or it…

From seed to fruit From backyard to front yard From nothingness to existence "To live is the rarest thing in the world, most people just exist Scene: The entire garden was asleep, it was blushing to it's own beauty.The nightingales were singing the ballads of beauty.suddenly a soft gentle breeze…

The birds chirrup and the butterflies dance The nightingales make my words cry I am not yours and I will never be yours But I am still afraid of losing you I am drowned but still thirsty I revolve around the axis of your delicate aura When you move the storm stops When you sleep the night cries her wounds in pain When you speak the air crumbles into flowers Who are you? The poetess of my soul The myriad of all princesses

How do you walk in my delicate courtyard? I feel pain, but you purify me I can behold through your mirror, The realm of paradise You reverberate solitude into my hollow You break time into tears How do I sleep in this frost?

Through the slits of your eyelashes,I behold you You scream in my delicate courtyard I am fragile and you have come with the storm To shatter the unsung clouds of your sorrow Behold me but don’t let me know Kill me but don’t let me know Promise me to remain loquacious in my head Promise me not to break your mirror in me That gait and that water drowned in your eyebrows The color of your being has made you immortal in me

You are the advent of the dawn Your streets are your slaves The breeze is in your lap The drizzle is writing your paradox The monster is singing delicate lullabies with the nightingales You are the galaxy of the solitude You are the honeycomb of the caravan You are the color of the butterflies The moon is in deep slumber in your fancy

I want to tell you the tales of my eyes I want to write you the arteries of my heart But I fear it will break your shadow I want to embrace you in my blood I want to tell you the tales of my aura You won’t behold it but still I want to cry in the rain It has been infinity my desert hasn’t seen a rainbow The water is rotten and the balmiest flowers are drowning I want to sing my nightingales and butterflies to your hands

You have polished me with pain The masons are still in wonder How have you carved yourself into your being? I am caged in your eyelashes Your feet are in my blood and your hands in my chest I am dissolving into your shadow The gardens are intoxicated Making handcuffs out of flowers I am withering in you, I am withering in you

When the sea is calm and the moon is in ecstatic jolly When the forests are being showered with drizzle and the soft gentle breeze is blowing melliflously When the nights of autumn are sweet cold and the crimson leaves are dancing in disdain My nightingale flows over the moon When the dainty butterflies flow over the rice twigs When your streets are lost in your wonder Whenever I behold any demure smile