It was a season of larks and of crows,
One for color yellow and one for melting dark,
It pushed me from every corner, till my world had shrinked from this future into the long forgetful past,
In my room I lasted and slowly forgetting myself to the core,
Slowly withering like the accidental lily I found on the road,
A day of beauty flowed , followed by the eternal fading,
I am the burnt grass of last summer watching the paddy bloom,
I listen to the occasional chirps of the tailor bird among the whacking of the broom,
Something about this decaying room,
Older it gets, more it wishes for the cracks to open for the fresh air to blow in,
For the time is not right for me, coz I am doomed,
But there are others, who want to see a sight,
Who perhaps need to listen to a tune they forgot, a sight they miss, a thought that’s forgotten,
So, my dear friend write, write about your moon,
Write about how you met, write about the sea that swells in the sight of you,
How it breaths it last every fort night, only to come at last,
Write about the shells, write about all the beauty while it lasts,
Coz, I don’t give a shit about good or bad, moral or immoral, right and wrong,
And the thought that it keeps the world straight and running,
Look at the world right now, is it not what’s its telling,
Only beauty that spreads should last beyond its past,
Like someone dear told me once, write for yourself ,
Perhaps it could make someone smile,
Times are different now; there is nothing to care,
So write and sing dear, not because you are good or bad,
But because, I am waiting in this old room waiting for some cracks to wide open.
