Tuesday, March 24, 2009


Who owns the wayside inn, where we find our refuge?
What do we lose when we leave, to cry over a loss?
We meet to share the path for sometime
And then walk away into two directions!

Is birth the preface of grief?
Is death a curtain for dreams?
Birth and death joined together
As life, is just an infatuation, a fallacy!

A rainbow as flowers of smile, blooms
Always, among the clouds, of distress and despair.
A wayfarer will say that he is unable to forget anything,
Just as the path will say that he dare not die;
And it gives its chest for the footfalls to
Traverse on it, throughout day and night.
Died yesterday; born today and the path
Keeps and protects always the wayfarers.
Unobtrusive, unknowing we walk on…

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