Skip to main content

The Flight

The bird of my heart ,
yearns to take the flight
that would lead it to a cold distant land where for sure it would find the warmth .
The warmth of filial love that doesn't let it rest.
What a pity ! more than chirping
it whimpers, it whispers because flight towards east side is its only behest.
Since the bird of my heart longs to capture that image with open wide eyes , 
Which is round the clock painted on its soul or conscience.
Alas! The bird of my heart has turned stiff as a stone ,
Unwilling to accept that the poor heart's yearned desire isn't going to taste the light of reality in time nearby.
It has to wait and watch,
Till the time is ripe when either it would fly or cool gust would blow to quench its thirst for sure from  the east side.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Do leave your comments

Popular posts from this blog

Working Mom

  The title of this write-up may make no sense and might seem whimsical to some. Yet, I couldn't think of any other, though I did try to run the horses of my mind for hours to replace it with a better one. Anyhow, its content, I hope, is worth reading. This may sound contrary to me,a language teacher who always guided  pupils to choose eye-catching and gripping titles for their work. Yesterday, a phone call from my twenty-one-year-old daughter led to a discussion  about the parents’ rights over children. I, being a mother, feel that a mother—being the carrier of her baby in the womb for nine long months and then bringing the baby into this world with unimaginable pain has rights to advocate. I told her about how difficult it is for a mother to stay away from her children, especially toddlers. I shared with her the hardest choice I had to make when she was just one and a half years old and my elder child was  three. It was one of the toughest years of my marriage....
9 comments
Read more

When Skill Meets Determination:A Salon, A Story and a Salute

Since time immemorial, both men and women have wished, ventured, and craved to look good, better, and sometimes the best. In every nook and corner of the world, whether in a bustling city, a quiet suburb, or a small village, salons and beauty parlours stand as testimony to this universal desire. With each generation, the dependence on such services has grown, shortcuts have become acceptable, and professional grooming has turned into a necessity rather than a luxury. This observation isn’t a conclusion drawn from research; it is born from personal experience with my twenty-one-year-old daughter. Having recently begun to manage her life independently, she is particular about her appearance and outlook. For the past three years, she has been living abroad and returns home every December for a month. During this time, she sweetly wishes to be pampered in every possible way. One such indulgence is getting her hair washed and blow-dried at a salon so that her curtain bangs remai...
10 comments
Read more

Silence

Silence is serene. Silence is solace. In several ways, silence saves the savage soul. Silence is static, strong, like sky-kissing mountains circling a sleepy hill town. Silence is somber when it stems from sadness. Silence strives to sleep over sickening strategies. Silence confers the childlike sleep upon the soulful, while it steals the peace of the soulless. Silence smiles and silences all conjectures. For a few, silence is a sweet remedy; for others, silence is a malady. For some, silence is a question impossible to crack. For others, silence is the answer to every crux. For some, silence is a shield. For others, the sharpest knife, the searing scythe. Most times, aparently silence saves bonds. At times, it breaks them into forms unrecognizable. Silence wears the face of a silent sage, yet stands indisputed as  a symbol of untamed rage. Life screams. Death silences. silence is a voice in itself, raising walls too high for unwanted noise to climb. Silence is a misunderstood path...
12 comments
Read more