Writings Poetry

Purity

I was too pure of heart.
There was a time, when I thought:
The world can only be one of the two non-colors
But then I started seeing the ugly grays
And I discovered that the world is not beautiful.

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Beauty

When will you come, little one?
I love your wings
I love your wings.
When you will sing, little one?
I love your voice
I love your voice.
How can something be so beautiful?
I want to catch you
I love you.

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To My Friend and Enemy

I, my lady, am not your slave.
You, kind sir, are not so kind.
Why do you exist?
And yet have no face?
But why do we feel so much of you?
(You are not a feeling
And yet I feel you.)
You have been with me forever
And you have been with him;
You have been with her.
What is it that you bring?
I don’t know, but I feel.
Why do you come back?
When something comes,
You are its company.
I can handle you now,
But only so much.

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True Birds

We don’t want to be creatures
In a cage not our own.
We have feathers for a reason.
We have wings for a reason.
If I had wings,
If I had feathers,
I would rather be not a bird.
Because,
True birds fly freely.

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Autobiography at 17

She was born as the ewe
Who draws fake tattoos
On the back of her hand,
Over her beating heart.
She loves the color of calm
And is obsessed with drawing trees.
Sometimes, the ewe becomes the monkey,
And sometimes a mirror cracked
And sometimes a dull knife
And sometimes the occasional waterfall.
She loves the subtle
And likes to see what is behind
And is attracted to the unhappy
And loves stories of life.
Why are miracles ‘miracles’
If they happen every day?
And despite all these, “This is not me.”
Because a decade and a half spent in the desert
Does not make a journey.
And one day, she will become a tree. 

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