
If fingers weaved a story
And they could speak..
Each of them
would have waxed eloquent
About
...a thousand things
that the tongue
would hesitate
to tell.



Counting the lingering rain drops,weighing them
What I imagined was the voice
beckoning from behind the red-pink evening sky
But how did u fathom,what rose in my eyes
The fiery swirls'f monsoon clouds,the impending storm?
How did you guess ,that
in mystery lies my wanton freedom?
Where did you learn
to delude my gathering thoughts
Like leaves scattering in these rainy winds
To bridge my loneness
With that tight hold onto my toe?
To hold back my neighing heart
With that much loved forlorn look?
I hate what you do to me,to simplify me
The way you sit beside my yearning self
But isn't this love,the Holy Grail of loneliness.
The journey ended long ago
I'm now supposed to drink.