The Final Sight

The Last Shade of the last hour is evaporated. 

One tremulous voice was approaching to my brimming ear. 

It wasn't the voice of the Volcano or the last shade, Not the voice of the mountain stream. 

My ear wanted to abscond. 

That boom forced it to be dislocated. 

But my mind recognised the great human cry. 

Dirty desires of the millions were unsheathed.

Only my austere eyes could catch the final sight of the last shade. 

The bucolic station was finding its revolving fate. Every attempt was the spear of the white tongue. But the primitive station was ostracized. 

The sword of revolt hit on the throat of humanity. Only the Reeds on the field were shivering.

Was it my final sight or not?

Heart of Spring

Passion of spring is Nature's ring. 

Nature poets are enjoying the joy of Spring. 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The Dandelion of Spring hath its end. 

Ode oft wrote about Spring,

Sense of joy may Blossom Blight bring. 

Cuckoo is the harbinger of this season. 

Soundless roaming, sweet-song creates the reason.

Cherish the Green on the solitary fields. 

It reminds, the Summer is just around the corner. 

It started to blow in the last Winter. 

Now growing to get the summer; it hath short lease. 

The blossom bowed down with its one while March is scarcely here. 

It is difficult to glorify the time on the same year.

Darkling Pleasure

The moon is shining bright. 

But my heart is not delight.

I cherished to be happy more, 

With the pleasant sight at the silvery shore. 

But the memories are blurring my sight. 

This is the cimmerian night with the gleaming light.

Another day has already passed. 

It was the last delight of my lust.

The language of light in darkness is not merely decorative. 

Where are the aesthetics of language? Where are they? 

Now I wanna explore my life's delight. 

As happiness lies within my sight. 

Thus making my soul Happy and Delight.

Never turn back the Cimmerian Night.

An Unknown Painter

Fresco has its own plaster.

Artist can create a short caricature.

Final creation is the new founder.

Some aesthetic comes from here.

Art; a piece of private correspondence.

The depth and passion of its earnest glance.

Nature's glittering beauty goes to the Atelier.

Ethical instruments are ready for the Painter.

Art of storytelling is the privacy of author.

Labour of reading is reader's favour. 

Imagination goes to the zenith's height.

Reflection of this fancy is so bright. 

Time reveals everything from it's womb.

There is a stone of invisible tomb.

The painting knows not to blame.

The painter is unknown to his fame.

Stopping by the Winter

Snow is falling round the city.

One is thinking about the absurdity.

Everything is looking White.

Animals are taking rest with the Sun's bright.

Hibernation is started between all of them.

To give a rousing shake, one needs to set 

the flame.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness

With no expression, nothing to express.

Day is too good, Night is so cold.

The creatures are looking like a garish wrapper's mould.

The Woodchuck takes a great Hibernation

No chance is there, no alternation.

Winter cannot scare me with its empty space.

To scare myself with my own desert place.

Blizzard starts soon after.

My aching heart invites a mitigator.

Ceasing is the favour of Winter.

Call of the wintry bed comes to the mortal ear.

Horrific Station

Mild is thy brain, having the hellish fire.

Where thou get the very mingling stir?

Is it infernal in its nature?

Should thou be that shabby creature?

Questions are left with a very weary yearn.

The mild creature is here to emancipate the turn.

Stirring station is not enlightened with the civilized light.

Hellish fire is there but not so bright. 

Visible fears are bright but those invisibles are more brighter.

Horrified workshops are now pervaded with the unconscious sensation.

Eternal, infernal fire is existed only in the 'Horrific Station '.

Crossing the Seashore

Standing on the vast seashore of Lethe,

I am sipping the sweet breeze of the restless sea.

My feet touch the ancient mossy hills. 

An unknown sonorous sound comes to my brimming ear. 

The mingling heart stops the oscillation before the bar.

A deep sensation lingers there.

For my bouncing heart the door to freedom is ajar.

Suddenly the cold, unrivaled splash of the oceanic beauty soaks my dappled face.

Such a touch my face never felt before. 

The paradise of summer-beauty is only the lonely seashore. 

Cadency of the oysters comes to the shore together. 

The halo of the unknown region forms the familiar world.

Familiar yet unfortunate.

The moment sharply turns its face to the east.

The Volcanic beauty appears in each corner of the sky.

The Oceanic beauty then hails the Volcanic one.

Till now the splashes spatter on my face.

Now long waiting becomes pregnant with the dawn at seashore.