No poet can stay alive solely in his/her poetry etched in papers, it is the reader audience in whom the poets breath forever.......
Rejoice with glitters of ashes tonightSparkling for moon's spiced silver biteUpon skin of darkness, loving night moreStorm begins unlocking cold wind's door
Eagle's flight of loneliness soars so high Around its sigh, no more alone the sky Other birds remain away, clouds pass byBetween shrouds of life and haze sun rays die
Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.
There is a stillness between us, a period of restlessness that ties my stomach
Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lost
...I fell asleep and had a dream that a king was liquidated by a group of kind faces...
To write good poems is the secret of brevity.
She leaves my side and heads deeper into
a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand;but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon,when I don't know, if you will ever come back.
All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.