4Linegraphia-en

  Oh, sisters, hear the secret hum, From where the painted whispers come. Not just a sound, a phantom haze, That cloaks your nights and gilds your days. It’s the Lips, you see, a cruel, sweet lie, That promise heaven in a bought-out sky. They gleam like pearls, or poison bright, Reflecting back your fading light. They shape the words that spin the spell, Of what you lack, and what to sell. "Be beautiful," they hiss and sigh, "And life's true worth will pass you by Unless you wear this perfect skin, Or welcome what we bring within." And then, the Goods! Oh, how they shine! Each plastic dream, a false design. A thousand trinkets, soft and deep, While genuine longings fall asleep. A serum for the aging face, A dress to find your fleeting place. They pile them high, a dazzling heap, While your true spirit starts to weep. But listen closer, through the drone, To whispers on a different tone: "Unlock your power! Monetize! Let every weakness be your prize!" T...

In ash and bronze where heroes fell, A widow wept by citadel. The Spartan sails had long since gone, Yet still she keened till breaking dawn. With olive oil and whispered name, She lit her grief like temple flame. But far to east, in dusky red, Where Ganga flows and legends tread, Kunti stood with sons of war— A mother, widow, goddess, scar. Gandhari’s blindfold veiled her pain, Her hundred sons all lost in vain. We watched you rise, then watched you fall, A world in ashes, answering your call. A Roman veil, in mourning tied, She watched her man in triumph ride. Then came the scroll: “He bled, he died.” She kissed the wax, but not her pride. She bore his child with stoic breath, And lived in marble’s shade of death. Your empires crumble, stone by stone, The tears we shed, your overthrow. And in the Rajput fort so high, A queen chose fire, not foreign lie. Padmavati in flame did rise— A widow made of smoke and skies. Through jauhar’s heat and battle’s cry, She kept her soul, though forc...

Those who go across the sea, Those who go for unseen gold, What will you bring when you return? Will your hands be full of ruby stones Of mermaids from the Milky Ocean's waves? Will you bring the song they sang, That melts salt from a sailor’s heart, A melody drawn from the ocean's mind, Whispered through depths where shadows bind? Or a secret folded in conch-shell curves, To echo on my waiting windowsill, a calm resolve? Tell me, will your eyes still hold that southern starlit map You followed past monsoon dreams, That ancient wisdom only oceans keep? Or will they turn, like tide-washed shells, Smooth and empty, gleaming — but gone, Lost to currents, unknown to my gaze? I do not ask for gold or pearls, Nor chains of sunken emperors’ pride. Bring me silence, shaped by distance, A truth as deep as the sea's own mind, that doesn’t lie. Bring me the echoes of your solitary stride, Reflecting thoughts only my heart understands, of what endures inside. Most of all, b...

In the quiet hum of a life well-spun, A sudden chill, a truth begun: We built their worlds, a careful grace, But found no lasting, central place. Not anchor, not the vital thread, Just air around where others led. We poured our light, a steady stream, Believed we lived within their dream. We loved until our bones grew thin, Let every joy and sorrow in. Then came a whisper, soft and sly: "What did your presence signify?" And all we gave, a silent plea, Became a phantom memory. They bloomed within the space we made, A garden where our own dreams frayed. Their laughter danced on our hushed pain, Their victories, our silent rain. We wondered once, with bated breath, How they'd endure our final death. They answered with their easy stride, Like water closing, where we'd tried. Where is the room, unlocked and wide, Where just our presence is our guide? The tea poured out, no reason found, The reaching hand, on sacred ground? She built her walls, a loving quest, A...

By blue lagoons, where green fields kiss the sea, Under cloudy skies, young slanting coconuts bloom. Their flower buds swelling, a promise of what's to be, From neera sweet to kallu in the room,  a taste of joy. At dawn, a tapper climbs on dried  coconut husk knotted with coir around each tree, Through mist or rain, a sickle in the gloom. Sometimes by night, a lantern lights his way, a silent plea, A dance with height, dispelling morning's fume, a dedication grand. Pebbles from streams, making sharpening powder, Flatten knives from the blacksmith's fire, Sharpened, cleaned, wrapped, ready for the task. Earth burnt to dust, packed in husk, tied higher, Tools of a trade, passed down through time's vast mask, for livelihoods planned. He climbs again with care, behind the spathe's soft mask, Strikes gently with medicinal oiled deer bone, a patient, ripening hand. Rhythmic music fusions from each deliberate tap, A secret melody, across the fertile...

  In a woman's strong hand, the broom's true power resides, From kitchen's clean corner, to courtyard's broad sweep, her strength it provides. For in her firm grip, the housewife transforms, A world warrior, weathering life's storms. Sweeping away grime, and banishing fear, Protecting her loved ones, held ever so dear. With each determined stroke, a silent decree, For health, and for joy, for her family's glee. Yet, this humble tool, through ages has flown, More than just bristles, a handle of its own. From hearth to high, where shadows play, A besom waits to start its day. No humble sweeper, naught so plain, It rides the winds and dances rain. It lifts from dust, a whispered sigh, And sweeps the circle 'neath the sky. To banish gloom, to clear the air, A silent promise, everywhere. Through moonlit groves, on mystic flights, It weaves through stars and ancient nights. Not wood alone, but woven spell, Where secrets of the old world dwell. Its journey crossed ...

In the far edge of a fading village lane, She sits — a shadow wrapped in jasmine rain. Her faded half-sari, thin with stories of want, Fingers blackened by charcoal and clay, Rolling dreams into sandalwood dust every day. She doesn’t speak — Not because she has no words, But because the world rarely listens To the hush between women and work. The fire she shapes is soft and slow, A sacred curl, a silent glow. Each thread of smoke, like rising guggul, a prayer unsaid, Each ash that falls — a hope that bled. Her mother once sang in sandalwood-laced air, Now silence hums through her tangled hair. Like the fragrance of sandalwood, her life lacked scent, A girl raised not with lullabies, But the burn of incense and sacrifice. She ties the threads, dips them in dusk, With earthy vetiver, her essence finds its ground. Not for temples or divine delight — But to keep her home warm through the night. They call her mute. They forget — silence is not absence. It’s a language, slow and ...

Beneath the blaze of bygone suns, An ancient tree in silence runs. Its limbs are lined with lichen grey, Like stories elders fade to say. Once it reached for skies so wide, With leaves like laughter, full of pride. Now brittle bones and branches bare, Echo years of wear and care. Its bark is wrinkled, rough with time, Much like faces past their prime. Each scar a tale, each knot a name, Of storms it met, and bore the same. No longer green, but still it gives— A perch for birds, a shade that lives. Like old men on porches deep in thought, Not lost, just slowly overwrought. No boastful bloom, no vibrant hue, Its quiet strength still sees us through. Children once danced in its shade, As once they played where grandpa laid. Seasons passed in silent grace, Etching wisdom on its face. Its fading crown, a leafy art, Drops whispers to the human heart. Each one a season, soft and brief, A memory held, beyond all grief. While seasons turn and worlds collide, It stands a monument, deep inside. W...

She moves through morning light, a whisper of dust motes in the sun. But shadows, unseen, cling to her steps like a shroud. Eyes, not merely keen, but honed blades of scrutiny, carve into her, words, not just traps, but snares of silk and venom, coil around her breath. A cityscape, a concrete jungle, becomes a web of grasping hands, a silent, predatory ballet where 'no' is a forgotten echo, a word stripped of its shield. They name her prey, a hollowed sound, a label etched in bone, not skin. But her spirit bleeds, a battleground where silent shrapnel tears, not the soft surrender of a feast. Her skin, a canvas etched with unseen script, remembers the unspoken, the truths that silence dared to bury deep. Bruises bloom, not merely on the flesh, but where the delicate tendrils of trust once stretched towards the sun, now withered, choked, by a sudden, brutal frost. He, the hunter, wears the tailored cloth of power, a scent of ambition, sharp and cold, a perfume that chokes the nas...

When one desire another's aim denies, And wills collide, then hate begins to rise. They creep in quiet, cloaked in shame, A whisper first, then full-blown flame. They spark from wounds not yet confessed, A fear unmet, a heart unblessed. They grow in glances, left unchallenged, In bitter jokes, in thoughts unbalanced. They feed on silence, thrive on doubt, Until we scarcely call them out. They bloom in traffic, curt replies, In weary parents' sleepless sighs. In classrooms where the loud survive, And softer voices twist and dive. They whisper in the hiring freeze, In sideways stares and tightened knees. They sit in boardrooms, cold and neat, And trickle down through crowded streets. They wear a thousand, borrowed skins— The flag, the faith, the tribe, the sins. They justify with twisted lore, a cruel, dynamic weapon, Then knock, demanding open doors. They rise in posts behind a screen, Where avatars grow cold and mean. They wear the mask of "just a joke," B...

  One day, when the chains of words were broken, She walked away, where a new love had spoken. The threshold lay silent, hollow and bare, For when first lust ripens, love claims its share. Then parents who nurtured, through childhood’s long span, May seem but as equals in life’s fleeting plan. Their lives they'd devoted, each care and each plea, But passion’s strong current flows wild and flows free. Sighs soared high before the tears could dry. Living, yet as one already dead nearby, She stood prepared for parting’s sacred sting. Too young, perhaps, for what true love should bring. For children, they say, 'til their twenty-first year, Lack insight that tempests of feeling make clear. In shame, the heads before her bowed so low— Erasing the daughter they thought they would know. Though the threads of kinship were torn by her choice, A smoldering ember still echoed its voice. In the same spring, on a different, hopeful shore, Two souls walked together, and as...

  She left before the morning caught its breath, A whisper in the hallway, a hush that felt like death. No storm, no scream, no slamming of the door— Just silence, thick and certain, and nothing more. I watched from behind the curtain's weary veil, As she stepped into love, so fragile and frail. And I stood, heart clenched, by the cradle of years, Holding the weight of her laughter and tears. We gave her a nest stitched of worry and prayer, Of late-night fevers and brushed back hair. Each scraped knee a battle, each birthday a flame, But children don't linger where they’ve learned your name. They chase after voices more thrilling, more bright, Drawn to the flicker that mimics true light. She called it love—I didn’t argue or fight. Some things must collapse to be proven right. But when it all curdled, as we feared it might, She turned not to us, but to shadows and spite. Behind some screen where revenge is spun, She became the jailbird, wings undone. We ...

  She came to me like wildfire in spring, Eyes full of questions, hands trembling to cling. I never asked her to sever the ties— But I didn’t stop her from chasing the lies. She spoke of her past like a cage made of care, Of a house too heavy with love and despair. And I—like a coward dressed up as a flame— Let her believe I was more than a name. She moved like a shadow into my world, Folding her hopes like letters, carefully curled. I watched her burn bridges I never condemned, Then told myself, “This isn’t my end to mend.” But what does it cost to be someone’s escape? To hold all their sorrow and mold it to shape? Too much, I decided, when someone new came— Someone less broken, someone less blame. She saw the shift—the drifting, the cold— And smiled like a child who’d just been told That magic was fiction and trust was a game. That love has no anchor, and I had no shame. I won’t pretend I loved her whole— I only ever filled a hole. But guilt, like rust, still finds its way, And s...

  As my soft, gentle face looked down, the radiant Sun looked at me and asked sweetly: “Who are you, lovely girl? Why are you standing so still, gazing at my light as it moves through the skies? With such calm, loving eyes, you keep looking back at me— is it that you want to say something? If I am wrong, forgive me—but I had to ask.” How could I reply? What could I say? Can a scentless flower ever speak to the glorious Sun himself? Because I loved the noble one with all my heart, this world mocked me—called me "just a tulip" in contempt. But the sacred love I hold for him will not wither by the harsh winds of others' scorn. I stood there, boldly facing him. What did I feel for this great-hearted deity? Even when I tried to hide the flood of feelings with a smile, that smile betrayed me. Those were not dew-drops on my cheeks, but tears of joy. I told myself they’d dry in the sunlight. The trembling in my body was not from cold winds or shyness, but from the intense heat of...

  A lonely evening, soft and deep, Where shadows stretch and secrets keep, The mango branch, a quiet stage, Cradles one bird, worn by age. Its wing once strong, now bent and torn, Remembers skies it once had worn. Yet from its throat, a gentle start— A fragile song from a broken heart. No feathered choir to join its tune, Just rain-slick leaves beneath the moon. It sings to wind, to patient light, A glowing hope within the night. The river hums, the grasses sway, Silent witnesses to its lay. And overhead, the velvet sky, Holds countless stars that whisper by. Across the hush where twilight lies, An owl stirs, with ancient eyes. Perched on branches gnarled and old, It dreams in silence, calm and bold. Not hunting prey or chasing flight, But lost in stillness of the night. Its golden gaze, unblinking, deep, Keeps forest lore and secrets steep. Two solitary souls, apart— One sings aloud, one guards the heart. Both known to none, yet shining bright, Their journeys held in quiet light. ...

  In rain-washed lanes where silence weeps, A child once crawled where sorrow sleeps. Polio’s grip — a cruel embrace, Twisted his limbs, erased his grace. Yet hope, like monsoon’s silver thread, Wove quiet dreams where angels tread. His mother lay in fevered grace, A ghost of warmth upon her face. Each breath a whisper, thin and bare, A lullaby of silent prayer. Her eyes, two lamps about to die, Still searched the dark for morning sky. His father pedaled rust and dust, A wheezing wheel, a daily trust. He sold mere dreams in paper form, Through sun and storm, through cold and warm. Each click of spoke, a muted song — Of hunger stretched a lifetime long. Then came the night — no more return, No flame, no footstep, just an urn. The father lost to screech and steel, His death too numb for grief to feel. The mother followed — breathless, pale, Her final sigh, a broken sail. Now silence ruled that shattered dome, No bread, no fire, no voice, no home. Only the ra...

She lives where light filters like forgotten prayers, through cathedral spires of cedar and pine. A cabin of moss, a hearth of ash and smoke, beneath the hush of endless green. The forest cradles her in its shadowed hands, a gentle captor, ancient and unknowable. She speaks little, her words stored in jars like fireflies— for no one comes to hear them flicker. Each morning, she rises with the fog, wraps silence around her shoulders, and steps barefoot into the hush. The wildflowers nod as she passes, familiar as breath, fragile as the dreams she dares not speak aloud. She presses her palm to tree bark, tracing veins of gulmohar and jamun, as if they might echo her pulse— as if the forest might remember what she herself has begun to forget: a name whispered once with tenderness, a mother’s song, the shape of another’s smile. At dusk, she carries the forest into sleep. Her dreams are woven from its silent deep: the cool press of moss, the scent of damp earth, the steady sigh ...

No crown she wore, no throne she knew, She walked where weary spirits grew. No gold, no silks, no royal gleam, Just sari white, a whispered dream. Its borders blue, a silent prayer, Her hands, a balm for all despair. She gave a voice to those unheard, And healed with silence, not with word. "Peace begins with a smile," she'd say, And with that smile, she lit the way. She touched the dying, kissed the sore, The poor, her "richest store." "The most terrible poverty," she knew, "Is feeling unloved—unseen, untrue." She knelt where others dared not tread, And lifted lives, each broken head. Abandoned child, the old, the bent, Her world they were, her sacrament. An angel from a foreign land, Across the seas, the snow, the sand, Calcutta's dust, India's wide land, The world's harsh streets, she understood. Each life the same, a fragile plea, She wept and prayed for them, for "me." "We fear tomorrow's unknow...

From ancient dust, a soul takes flight, Through countless dawns and fading night. Our purpose clear, a sacred quest: To shed the dross, and find what's best. Or linger lost, in shadows deep, While chances for true growth just sleep. For purified hearts are temples bright, Reflecting truth, dispelling night. Not just for self, this inner gleam, But shared, a universal dream. Yet, closed-off souls, in selfish hold, Leave stories of connection untold. Love is the language, understood, In hands that help, in doing good. A shared meal, a listening ear, Dispelling doubt, calming fear. But silence reigns, when hearts don't care, And needs unspoken fill the air. And when the burdens press us low, Forgiveness helps the spirit grow. To loose the chains, to set us free, A selfless act for you and me. Or bitterness, a heavy chain, Will bind the spirit to its pain. Hard work of help, a noble art, To mend the world, a broken part. In every soul, a chance to shine, To offer streng...