The final act…

What made us to call a flower, love that withers
When it is only half unfurled?
Why did we call the breath taking magnificence
Of a rainbow, that can always melt
In the tears, a maiden?
Why do we a call a hornbill, which is always thirsty,
The desire or passion or lust, in the human mind?
Why do we call that butterfly hoping around
Pretty flowers, an alluring dream?
Why that crystal platter that shatters, when dropped
In the earth, is called the human mind?
Why do you call an uninvited guest
Coming into our life, the destiny?
Why do we call a comedian who arrives
At the most inopportune moment into the play,
Unannounced and unexciting, DEATH?

Complacency…

Can you hear the whimpering spasm of a flower,
While you pluck and detach it from its stalk?

Or is it a gladdening chuckle, emanating from its throat,
For having attained its goal, in its life?
To adorn, the braids of an alluring maid?
Or the interiors of a chamber in a mansion,
Amid the chillness of its luxury; in an ornate vase.

Unless there is someone to love her
How can a maiden become a goddess?
How can the silence become music,
Unless a maestro, seeks and finds it?
How lamps can spread its radiance,
Without the silver wicks, to wipe away the darkness?
The fresco needs an unwrinkled wall
Smoothened by a craftsman, for the painter
To create his fantasy, into a picture.

Unless you sleep, embracing your sweetheart
How can you achieve a complacent fulfillment?