Friday, November 19, 2010


In those young days when I used to

Love blossoms, and wished to fly around them

Like a butterfly, the colour of my dreams was ‘green’.

When I coveted to touch the snow clad

Mountains that loomed over the boundless

Horizon spreading before me, the colour

Of those dreams were ‘ blue’, as the hyacinths.

The age when I desired for the dawn of

A new political system without corruption,

And the blood was bubbling with revolutionary

Ideologies, the dreams hovered around me

Looked forward for such a dawn, its colour

Was a crimson ’ red’, of the proletariat.

When I see the dry leaves of a tree

Scorched in the intolerable heat of the sun,

My excitement freeze and the dreams

Assumed the hue of ‘ash’, in despair.

In this advanced stage of life, I am unable to see

Anymore vivid dreams, I used to have.

Now my palette have the colours, got mixed

Together, and formed a blackish tint.

No more resplendent dreams in the life now!

And who knows, what its colour could be

In the eerie silence of my tomb….

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