From The Quill

 There you go to the glittering gold shops, Buying the expensive textiles and hardware  Enough to reflect on your status To show off to envious relatives. Your ignorant gazes are blinded by vanity. For the most precious riches are those your eyes can't see. The awareness of the vast universe,  And how insignificant are thee. Once you leave the realms, you can no longer see your riches. Your soul will whirl in thin air just like That beggar you winced at on the street. But the Fakira who chose knowledge over it. I live on in ideas and thoughts,  Revolution and rebels, stories and words. Her soul was enlightened by the richness of the verse. For your riches can turn to rags with tide  Your friends can become enemies  Your luck can run out with time. But knowledge, once earned, where does it go? It stays in your heart and lights up the soul.  It makes you richer and teaches you humbly  How fragile is life and all the desires you chase  In the en...

The older we grow, our expectations of love change. It's something that happens naturally. We tend to prioritise our needs and wants and call it love. Our mushy teen selves that once believed in the purity of such feelings are often overshadowed by socially set standards and judgements on how one's partner should work right, be settled, and have certain materialistic offerings rather than the emotional capabilities we once sought. But then, once in a while, all of us wish to go back to that unscarred pure self of ours that wanted a love very rarely found beyond stories of romance. But deep down, you know you would give anything to have it. Then there are days, fleeting moments, words said and unsaid and perhaps one single incident that makes you momentarily feel that love you wanted to feel. The expectations you once had from this feeling. Of finding peace, solace, and a home. In that moment, you feel like you have been waiting all your life for that one single moment of bliss....

 Lips part as if to whisper a prayer  But no words escape it.  Your fingertips linger on the edge. Of her body, like she is a nymph  You are craving on the wall of a temple.  You know every scar and mole in her body  Like it was a shrine to you.  Her youth is a blooming lotus.  In your garden of desire. But why do you pause when they ask who she is?  Why do you inhale every time she asks What you like about her?  Everything, you say, hoping to please her. She smiles and brushes off the empty feeling. that creeps in  As you cuddle in bed.  Every time you make love to her,  She knows it.  You know it.  There is no denying it.  You know her inch by inch.  In the darkness of the right  But in the light of dawn  Her soul is still a stranger. ©Suranya

 I stand beneath your stone statue,  Staring at a distant dream,  I feel like I have belonged here,  Since eternity or so it seems. People call you History,  The perfect hero of the past. You to them is a warrior,  Perhaps a king, fighting for freedom.  You to me is a Heart,  That battles against the brain,  Stands alone against the odds of every pain. You come across as perhaps a rebel child.  To me, you fought for your belief.  To them, you were about the war,  To me, you are her Love. All they see is a statue or two,  Your values and soul forgotten.  They remember you for two days a year,  While the rest seem unimportant. © Suranya