Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.

Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.
Feathers lie in the cold, it tell stories of life before.
Showing posts with label The Palm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Palm. Show all posts

Saturday, June 1, 2013

The Palm, The Pond and The Rose


Melancholy pierce the consciousness. Encompasses the whole being, tortures the soul, grab the only hope of being happy--later on, shrinks the soul into a dark pit--of pity, of despair.

Then it vents all its hopelessness in the lake of tears, brims it, as if downpour passed by, in a moment of time, to the point of asking justice.













Swarms of thick nimbus are heavy and drifting 
Conspire with grave Russian winds; fiercely cool
Caressing winds, the morning clouds in mourn

As though, when obsessed to dribble ‘pon pool.


 




The stupor pool breath bits of chilled water
The droplets wildly swelled went on gushing.
Weary eyes and achy breasts in pool linger—

Wailing, sobbing flash’ beside flirty spring.



 



Blue moment: gushy brooks, drowsy lakes
 And dopey pool, mingle in the pale palm;
The mid-curve, a pond—a rose sobs and shakes

Nay, Faun's soft euphonies ever becalm. 






Who, in this planet got stout courage ever?
Herculean strength he has, to pluck the   gloom
And tearing grief, of lonesome soul by mere

Whisper to rose’ ears, for next rosy bloom.