4Linegraphia-en

  In depths of time, where legends sleep, Two sisters, ancient secrets keep. Yamuna, a river, pure and bright, A flowing hymn of day's soft light. She bore the songs of Krishna's grace, Reflecting tears from every face. A sacred stream, a living art, The beating of the earthly heart. Her sister, Yamini, veiled in shade, The silent night, a dream displayed. She wrapped the world in shadows deep, While whispered promises would sweep. Upon her banks, a bloom appeared, The Flower of Sagittarius, revered. To Yama, god of death's domain, A bridge of life to ease the pain. The night sister, with heart so bold, Embraced the journey, ages old. Through Yamuna's parted, flowing core, She walked to find the final shore. She crossed the groves of Rathideva, A moonlit beauty, wild and free. To Yama's gates, she held her ground, Where silent guards made not a sound. Before the cold and ancient king, A gift of dreams, she chose to bring. The god of death, in stark surprise, Felt li...

  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. ...

Every night, you come to me, In dreams where time’s unbound, A whisper from a memory, Where love and loss are found. Your face appears in shadowed light, A smile both warm and sad, A ghost that dances in the night, In moments good and bad. I try to close my weary eyes, To leave you far behind, But still you visit, soft disguise, The echo in my mind. I’m caught between the past and now, Between what was and gone, A silent reason I can't name, That keeps me from your dawn. A heart that breaks but doesn’t bow, I reach, and then I run.

Across the stars, through endless night, I ride alone on trails of light. A silver tear, a lonely ghost, Of all the souls I loved the most. I traded soul, a fading flame, To give my planet back its name. Like shattered glass, my life was torn, To feed a hunger newly born. He made me this—a boundless slave, A gravity tide, a voiceless wave. I sought his feasts from sky to sky, And watched a thousand planets die. But when I reached Earth's fragile shore, A hummingbird's heart I heard—and more. A whisper stirred, a spark, a flame— A cry for mercy, not for fame. I turned away, a storm of might, And faced my master, dark as night. He cursed me down, a falling star, A broken shield in endless war. Now grounded, lost, no longer free, I am a prisoner—rooted like a tree. With roots in earth and arms of dreams, I reach for what I cannot see. Yet on this Earth, so scarred, so small, I saw your hands deface it all. You lit the skies with ash and flame, Then turned and gave your...

This page is not yours to guide. It is a path I walk alone — not because I reject company, but because some roads are carved from solitude. This page is a landscape I am shaping with a pen, a path that has always whispered beneath my feet. It teaches me that what grows slowly, lasts. The ink is the river — dark with memory, flooded with questions I once feared to ask. Now I know: uncertainty is the birthplace of real learning. You may not see the mountains I climb inside, the places I’ve had to let go just to keep walking. But I’ve learned — not all weight is meant to be carried, and release is not weakness, but wisdom. I do not write to fit inside your frame. I live to feel the full stretch of my being, not to fold myself into shapes that please the room. And that, too, is freedom. This is not just ink— it is what I could not say aloud. A voice I reclaimed when the world grew too loud. And I learned: silence is not always empty. Sometimes, it’s where we find ourselves wait...

They do not shout from rooftops, nor carve their names in stone, yet in the breath between chaos and calm, they live — a quiet flame that burns alone. Not kings, not saints, but mothers who boil rice in borrowed kitchens, fathers whose hands are cracked with dust, yet hold dignity like a crown. They rise before the world wakes, not to win, but to give — a glass of water to the thirsty, a word of hope to the weary, a roof, a path, a prayer, a seed. They are not written into history books, but the pulse of history beats in their veins. Their truths are not poetic metaphors, but rice sacks split to share when hunger knocks at the neighbor’s door. In the village lane where schools are few, a girl teaches her siblings from torn pages, and in the digital din of neon towns, a boy plants saplings between broken tiles, asking no permission from the world to make it better. These are the unnamed architects of what is still good — men who build without applause, women who give without...

The sun climbs up, the day takes hold, A list of tasks, both new and old. The tools lie waiting, sharp and true, The work is ready — meant for you. But in the corner, soft and sly, A whisper says, “Let this one lie.” Why toil and sweat and chase the grind? Just scrimshank now — they will not mind. He fakes a cough, he claims a pain, Escapes the job, avoids the strain. But every task he leaves undone Becomes the weight of everyone. A teammate sighs, another bends, To carry what he won’t defend. Their backs grow sore, their time runs thin — While he walks out with a lazy grin. Yet work ignored does not just fade, It stains the path the honest laid. For every lie, excuse, and shirk Erodes the pride of honest work. But some stand firm through sweat and heat, They show up whole, they don’t retreat. Their hands grow rough, their will turns steel, They live the truth that others feel. And I am one among that line — Whose sweat is proof, whose hands define The worth of work, the gr...

I was born where chandeliers kissed the sky, Where wealth was truth, and gold never lied. A crown without battle, a name that rang loud, Among kings and giants, I stood proud. A mansion's child, with walls so wide, A fleet of dreams parked right outside. Fathers envied, mothers praised, In silken circles, I was raised. My father — wise, a man of steel, Taught me honor, taught me real. My mother — soft, her touch divine, Held my storms in hands so fine. A sister’s laughter filled the air, With secrets only siblings share. My wife — my breath, my sacred vow, Whose smile could calm the worst of now. Grandparents old, with eyes like grace, Their words, a map; their arms, a place. We sat as one — a fortress strong, A golden family, full and long. The world would bow when I would speak, I didn’t chase — fortune would seek. Assets, lands, empires signed, A life most men would never find. But storms don’t knock — they break the door, And take much more than gold can store. Deat...

Out in the wild, where sheep would stray, A shepherd boy sang the night away. Today, in alleys and urban light, A lost kid hums through a lonely night. He faced the lion, the bear, the threat, With fearless heart and no regret. We face our giants—the quiet, the grim, In anxious thoughts and screens' false hymn. A harp in hand, he calmed a king's storm, We stream a song to stay safe and warm. He danced for joy, a worshiping soul, We swipe for peace to feel more whole. Goliath fell to a single stone, By faith, not power, he was overthrown. We fight our fears from deep inside, With whispered prayers and nowhere to hide. He fled from Saul, from the jealous hand, Still trusting a greater, unseen plan. We run from shame, from a world's cruel eye, Yet still long for truth to rise on high. He fell in sin, then broke in grief, But in God's mercy, he found relief. And so do we, when hearts collapse, Finding grace to bridge the painful gaps. A crown he wore, but more t...

We loved like mannequins in a luxury store, dressed in longing but hollow to the core. Your eyes sparkled like screens in low light, never deep, just bright enough to bite. You held me like a credit card: swiped fast, then discarded, slightly scarred. Our promises were like streaming shows, binge-watched fast, with nothing left to hold. We raced toward the end credits, the final bows, then started searching for a brand new scroll. Our laughter rang like ads between songs — catchy, forgettable, and painfully wrong. We kissed like actors rehearsing pain, staged affection, recycled again. Your "I love you" came like a sponsored post — polished, scheduled, and approved by ghosts. I watched us like reruns of better lives, curated smiles, like knives in disguise. You packaged me like a trendy new brand, with a polished story and a perfect look. The thrill was in the unboxing, held in your hand, then the old plastic was tossed in a book. Your promises bloomed like plasti...

The wind, a saintly breath, a spirit free, Like a patient sage, it roams the land. It holds no claim, no desperate plea, Just quiet grace held in an open hand. Then, from the ash, a truth begins to bloom: The holy fire, a burning, restless light. A captive yearning to escape its room, It fights its way through long and sleepless night. The wind, instead of dousing, draws in close, And whispers truths the fire's heart can hear.  A gentle guide who knows the path he chose, He fans the flame to burn away its fear. They twist as one, a dance both fierce and deep, A love that asks no less than everything. Like rivers merging from a mountain steep, They rise as one on wild and sacred wing. The fire wails through the hollowed, aching dark, A child crying for a long-lost name, But the wind, with kindness, guards the fragile spark, And gives the pain permission to remain. The fire burns through lies we swore were true, Like letters we kept but never dared to read— Old memories, ...

  I do not hold you, the weapon you carried, the wound you nurse. And in not holding, I love. With wings of the soul wide open, love becomes the art of release— When you know this, you will be free. That is the code. I looked into your eyes, and sorrow stared back. A revolution’s anger, its victories, its ghosts— all stitched into banners you clung to. But you never once noticed: there was no permanent ‘you’ reflected within the cause. Love is not a flag, nor a monument to a fallen friend, but the stillness of compassion— a silent presence beside you until you meet yourself face to face, beyond the war. I chose this robe not to flee the world, but to unlearn the clutching. When you came, bloodied and seeking peace, I did not fear— for I had already learned to love without grasping the outcome. You ask me for a code? Listen— All things will change. All things will pass. And yet, compassion will have no end. There is perfect peace in the space between— a sacred mantra whispered: "Th...