Tag: poem

Dreams.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

 

He wanders through this wild, mad world
In search of soothing dreams,
And like the Lark that sings for All,
He swings on hopeful beams.

He lives amid a throng unknown,
Forsaking many smiles;
And yet the glint within his eye
Does many eyes beguile.

He talks to none about the dreams,
Conveys to none a sigh,
The others think him very queer,
He will not tell them why.

And Hope is never there at all,
And life is foully weak,
There comes a point when dreams are all
A weary heart can seek.

In them love can live forever
And joy is never old;
Courage is always the bravest
And souls are never sold.

In dreams shall he find his solace,
Wherein he freely flies,
They form the home in which he lives,
The tomb in which he dies.

The Twins.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Storming the brain of the mind of the twin,
Had not the measure of love that would give
Joy, nor the hurt, nor the pain that could win
All the interesting decisions to live

Flying from Worlds where Happiness lives on,
Rested in homes wherein Lust oft deceived –
Laughing and waving with him Hope had gone –
Smilingly, Life in a whisper believed:

“Lying for thee, and then pining for thee,
“Crying for all, to be happy for what?
“Vain and unkind, to be sure, thou shall be,
“Naught to the world, in quandaries caught.”

Just like the Earth, in a dream for the Sun,
Blissfully aches to unite and be one,
Hearts of the two (like the Prodigal Son)
Waiting to feel then be crushed by the ton.

Waiting and waiting, to wait is a curse,
Lasting forever like darkness of death,
Hope has been carried away in a hearse,
Gone and forgotten to never be met.

Life which follows with a staggering sway,
Breathes with the burden of living alone,
Crying in anger and begging her stay,
Losing a twin is a reason to mourn.

Looking in eyes that do kindly seem true,
Life in a dilemma is scared to be weak,
Searching for Hope in a crowd of so few,
Now, to be happy, a love she does seek.

The Same Moon

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The brightest stars twinkle in their places,
In the cloudless, dark blue sky.
On warm earth the flowers lie
With a dewy sprinkle on their faces.
The breeze sifts in a soft lullaby;
A nightingale croons: “Not him, ‘tis I.”

The lover sits beneath a leafy bower
Reviving a memory,
Of what was destined to be.
Remnants of it fall in a wary shower;
Wisps of an immortal mystery,
Of what is to be or not to be.

Always so distant and never too close;
Neither the ground for flight,
Nor the question of might.
Always the sun gave way as she arose;
The same love at her fair sight,
The same moon for us at night.