A time to mourn

Fifty million pores in the body and each wanted to absorb the light of love.. 

Like the 50 million stars in the sky that burn bright at the same time! 

Or it just seem that they did,

Like the stars do!

Whereas many of them are already dead! 

Long ago. 

They can not light up any more. 

They can't absorb any more.

Only the news will reach us much later. 

Like, the telegram that at times reached later than the actual guests, in the 1980s. 

Or the emails that got lost in the web and took years to reach. 

Are we still allowed to mourn the loss?

Is it allowed to mourn the dead a hundred years after they have passed away?

Is that mourning still valid?

Like they mourn Hossein after 1400 years?

Is that allowed for us all? 

May be you can mourn the passing away of love,

When you finally realise that it has passed you by.

It has passed away.. 

Long ago. 

Like those starts hundreds of lightyears away.

You can..

Even when you start mourning in retrospect. 

Feel free to mourn. 

And then sit and think

At what exact point the pores of your body will close?

Those that opened to see as the eyes fell short..

One by one

All fifty million of them..

It takes time, after all.  

To close. 

To mourn.

Keep your breath away

Keep your breath far away from my thoughts
They often grow a forest there,  
And I get lost.
Again and again!

Keep your hands far from my breath,
I want to hug my bunch of flowers
And smell them. 
They are red, white, and pink.
I do not have blue.  
Blue flowers are called,
Invincible!
And I, for one, can not claim them.
I constantly stumble on your thought 
All throughout the day!

Keep your hair far from my fingers.
My fingers try to create myriad possible routes, 
Through the roots there.
One that starts at the left and soon reaches the middle, 
And somehow saves itself from meddling with the right,
Before ending all of a sudden! 
The middle one goes right through and falls downhill. 
And then there is a zigzagged one.
I love the earthy fragrance of the middle one.
The left one smells of new books. 
I have never smelled the right. 

Claude Monet painting, ‘Morning On The Seine In The Rain’.

Keep your fingers away from my mind. 
They form white thick clouds even on sunny days. 
Drops of rain fall on my back and paint a landscape in water-colour . 
I can't see the painting. 
I can only imagine it. 
The blue mingles into green.
The green mingles into earthy brown.
The yellow of fallen leaves gets mixed in the red of flowers.
It feels like the rain washing me away, Incessantly. 
On a sunny summer afternoon!



Keep your breath away.
Please!
They make me want to forget to breathe
In the ways I have always known.