4Linegraphia-en

  Beneath the sky’s wide, fading canopy, I walked alone, with dreams no one could see— A hollow reed, once cast aside and bare, Now shaped by love, to sing and softly care. I am a flute—my breath, the only tune, A voice for those who wander under moon. Though carved by grief, and played by sorrow’s hand, My notes bring warmth the cold cannot withstand. I am the shepherd of the lost and small, The street’s forgotten—I have room for all. Their trembling hands find safety by my side, Their fears dissolve beneath my quiet guide. I play them songs that turn grey skies to blue, A soul-made-instrument, both pure and true. And in each note, a part of me is poured— A child who gives, though nothing he has stored. But one pale dusk, a silence touched my song— A doctor’s word: "Your breath won’t last too long." My lungs, the wind within this wooden frame, Will fail me soon—but still I play the same. I do not weep. Instead, I hold my flute, And say, “Let joy take roo...

  Beneath a dune of silver dust, Where time lay still, as all things must, A camel slept through centuries' sigh, While stars rolled silent through the sky. No hoof had stirred, no bell had rung, Since ancient songs were last far-flung. But then one night, a trembling breeze Whispered through the tamarisk trees. The stars were speaking, sharp and bright, And heaven pulsed with newborn light. The sleeper stirred—his breath grew deep, He woke from long and wordless sleep. He rose alone on trembling legs, Through drifting dunes and rocky dregs. The wind that met him sang of change, Of kings and shepherds, wide and strange. The desert blinked with wonder’s gleam— Was this a dream inside a dream? Yet still he walked, his pace unsure, Drawn by a voice both kind and pure. Then in the haze of morning's gold, He saw a herd, majestic, bold. Their backs bore gifts, their hearts held flame, But when they saw him—still they came. "Who walks from ages lost in dust? With bones of stone, ...

In a drizzling rain, I stood alone, Where the Meenachil river whispered soft and slow. The water moved with memory's weight, And I waited, unsure, But knowing: it was time to go. The ferry pier, rotted and worn, Slick with moss and yesterday’s grief, Reached out like a broken hand To the mist— To the far bank— To belief. They said she vanished in the harvest, Gone like a flame in the morning dew, Her name spoken only in hushed regret: Sree. The girl I once knew. One day she danced barefoot in dust, Laughter like drums over red-soil ground. The next, she was wind, She was hush, She was myth, She was never found. But I heard her—still— In the river’s breath, In dreams the rain would bring. And when the boat appeared, My chest throbbed Like a drum remembering how to sing. The skiff broke the fog like a question. An old man paddled, face carved in wood. A basket of cassava and catfish gleamed at his feet— And there She stood. She looked younger than my longing, But her eyes...

  A canvas gray, a somber hue, The rain had fallen, soft and true. A drizzling mist, a misty veil, That blurred the world, and made it pale. Upon the bank, of mud and gloom, I stood, and watched the river's bloom. The water swirled, a liquid dream, A memory, a whispered stream. The sky above, a somber shade, Of muted blues, and whispers made Of clouds that drifted, slow and deep, A silent story, secrets to keep. The air was thick, with scents of damp, Of earth awakened, and the lamp Of morning's light, now dimmed and low, A whispered promise, soft and slow. The world was hushed, in gentle sigh, As if it paused to ask me why— Why hearts grow heavy, days grow still, Why time moves on against our will. I thought of roads I didn’t take, Of quiet dreams I let forsake. Of love once warm, now swept away, Like petals lost in rain’s ballet. The mist became my shroud, my shield, A quiet place, where thoughts could yield— To all the things I could not...

  In kitchens borrowed, scents of spice arise, Where mothers toil with patient, knowing eyes. Not queens are they, nor saints in marble halls, But weavers of a life within four walls. With hands that knead, and hearts that softly beat, They stir the pots—a humble, rich retreat. A whispered prayer in steam begins to glide, Where love and memory quietly reside. The stoves are old, the counters chipped and bare, Yet warmth flows in the seasoned, fragrant air. These borrowed kitchens—rented, patched, or shared— Hold roots of love, by hardship unimpaired. The cow dung walls, the soot on every beam, The leaking roof that drips into a dream— No gas, no oil, just twigs or smoky flame, Yet still they cook, and never once complain. No extra milk, no butter, fish, or meat, Just salt and chilies, fired to make heat. The curry thin, yet served with steady hand, A feast of care, though hunger stalks the land. An edge-broke plate, a meal so faint and small, Half ...

  Each river pens a legend deep, In flowing dreams where secrets sleep. But when those gentle streams run dry, A culture fades, a silent, sorrowful goodbye. Where Vembanad in silence lies, Beneath the wide and watching skies— Small boats carve paths through rippled blue, While mighty boats with stately sweep pass through. The birds above, a silent grace, Etch ink-dark wings on water's face. On banks where farmers bend and sow, The lake-wind whispers ancient songs, soft and low. Their laughter, labors, nets they cast, Hold stories rooted in a vibrant past. Children chase the fish they seek, While time moves slow and voices speak. Houseboats drift with easy grace, Through mirrored skies and water’s face. Tourists wave with shy delight, As wonders bloom in golden light. Now dream a town beside this shore, Where nature’s whispers sing folklore. Each wave a tale, each breeze a sigh, A spell of stillness floating by. A bird calls out—its cry a song, Where untouched islands wait so long. ...