Fourlinegraphia

I stand here strong, both brave and tall, Yet truth be told-I hate war’s call. I never wished for fights or pain, I only wished for peace again. I love the quiet morning breeze, The rustling leaves upon the trees. I love the songs of birds at dawn, And golden fields the sun shines on. I dream of laughter, pure and bright, Of children running in delight. I dream of roads where people sing, And simple joys that mornings bring. I dream of home, so far away, Where my old parents kneel and pray. My mother waits with hopeful eyes, My father hides his silent sighs. My little sister waves goodbye, Pretending that she will not cry. They tell me, “Son, be safe, be strong,” But I can hear the fear along. I never wished to hold a gun, Or march beneath the burning sun. My heart was made for gentler days, For peaceful fields and quiet ways. But darkness came, so cold, so near, A shadow filled with hate and fear. It tried to steal the peace we knew, The sky so wide, the morning dew. So here I stand u...

  War took far more than names carved into stone. It stole the quiet mornings never born. The kettle sang, its silver breath in air, yet empty chairs stood waiting by the fire. Not only lives lost far on distant fields, but futures dimmed beside a kitchen pane. The bread lay whole, untouched upon the board, and missing hands left silence at the table. The stories fathers never told their sons, the rusted hinges crying on the gate. A garden plot lay waiting for the spring, its patient soil remembering their steps. The maps of lives once sketched in hopeful lines were torn along the fragile edge of time. Dry ink remained upon the unread page; the pen hung still within a quiet room. Written on an unread page: "The greatest loss of war Is not the life fallen on the field, But the future stolen from the kitchen window Dreams waiting at home that will never return" . Long shadows filled the patient hallway’s length, while ticking clocks spoke softly into air. A city's strength ...

  I have always believed A friendship is more than a click, More than a glowing screen at night. It lives in voices, laughter, and quiet moments Where hearts recognize one another. Across the digital streets of Facebook, I once watched people gather like neighbors In a vast town square- Sharing birthdays, memories, small victories, And the simple magic of everyday life. Through the dream of Meta, The world seemed to move a little closer, Where distant families felt near, And strangers sometimes became Beautiful stories in our lives. But today, as I scroll through endless feeds, I see shadows moving between the words- Fake stories drifting like digital ash, Profiles without faces, Truth struggling to be heard. Sometimes the screen becomes a battlefield. Sharp comments replace conversation, And cyberbullying hides behind usernames, Turning words into silent wounds. What was meant to connect us Sometimes threatens the very hearts It promised to bring together. I pause and wonder If we...

The evening fades and quiet fills the room with shade. An empty chair still waits beside the silent door. Soft sunbeams wander slowly through the dusty air, Touching the walls where echoes of his laughter live. A weathered frame still guards the memory of his smile, Unchanged by years and unseen tears she keeps inside. They said he marched with courage bright beneath the flag; Now folded colors rest above his quiet grave. The bugle called across a sky too wide for grief, And pride and sorrow tangled deep within her hands. Morning arrives with gentler steps than once before; His boots no longer stand in patience by the door. The kettle sings a lonely song for only one, While two small voices call her name with hopeful eyes. She braids their hair and mends the seams of growing days, And reads again the letters softened by her tears. “Soon I’ll return,” the final fading promise says- A line that time has left unanswered in the blue. Each year she walks among the rows of silent stone And l...

  A Whistle Across the Burning Sky .................................................................. In the deep hush of the Western Ghats’ green shade, where moss slowly claims the ancient breathing stone, I rest upon a rain-dark branch of silver Chembakam, a flicker of flame in the cathedral of leaves. * Monsoon mist curls through the tangled forest air, the scent of wet earth rising deep from the soil. Pepper vines spiral on the patient trunks of trees, untroubled by the restless reach of human hands. * Below, a shy stream slips through shadowed roots and fern, moving toward seas it has never dreamed to see. I guard the quiet heart of emerald forest shade, where ancient rains whisper in endless green halls. * No flag is stitched upon my crimson forest breast, no passport marks the paths my wandering wings take. I move through skies where borders never learned to live, where sun belongs to ant and pine alike. * Yet the wind brings a taste I never asked to know, the iron-cold br...

  At dawn’s first hush, I perch in silent strength. Night schooled my heart to master hidden flame. Anger may rise like heat beneath my wings, Yet still I choose the branch of self-control. The forest hums with honeyed, fragile lies. Not every call that echoes means me well. Some smiles are traps disguised in golden light, Some vows dissolve like mist at break of day. I learned that fairness does not rule the trees. The just may fall while cunning shadows rise. So I rely upon my tempered wings, Before I lean on any borrowed nest. The wind once carried those who swore to stay; They vanished like dry leaves in restless gusts. From empty branches, I rebuilt my poise, And found my strength was rooted deep within. I know the difference now in forest ways: Between loud flocks and souls who rest in peace. With some, the silence settles soft and warm; With most, the air grows heavy with pretense. I learned to say a quiet, certain no. To leave the vines that tighten round my flight. To guar...