Fourlinegraphia

"The Poem Based on ethnic clashes between tribes like the Birta and Hausa in Blue Nile state" In the heart of the wild where the sun burns low, I met a lion girl with a revolutionary glow. With fire in her laughter and storms in her stride, She marched through the grasses where ancestors died. Her hair, like a banner, unyielding and free, A golden defiance that danced like the sea. With each step she took, the ground knew her claim, A drumbeat of justice, a whisper of flame. No chains could contain her, no empire could bend The will of the girl who would fight to the end. She spoke not of dreaming, but of battles begun— Of silenced traditions and work still undone. Her voice was a weapon, sharp, clear, and strong, It echoed the truths buried quiet too long. She carried the rhythm of uprisings past, Of women who rose — and who would not be the last. But deep in the soil, where the blood once ran red, Lay memories of stories they tried to leave dead. The field...

  In a world where dreams are spun like gold, Lies a longing deep, a tale untold, Of hearts that seek not riches to behold, But the empty promise greed can hold. With every coin that clinks and shines, A shadow grows where light declines, Among the whispers of velvet nights, The price of greed unfolds in sights. The merchant stands with open palms, Enticing souls with fanciful psalms, “Just one more deal, and you will see, The world will bend all bows to thee.” Yet known too late, the truth will peep, In folly’s grasp, the heart will weep, For fortune’s smile can quickly fade, Leaving naught but fears in its parade. Families torn by hunger’s grip, While fingers reach for the endless trip, To grasp the stars, the moonlight’s grace, Blindly ignoring the human race. As mountains turned to castle walls, The greed within the mighty falls, Desires fester in haunted dreams, And laughter, once bright, now barely gleams. In shadowed alleys, lamps aglow, Where innocence is bought and sold, A...

  -I- Krishna, the Red Flute  On the fields of Kurukshetra wide, Where princes fell and dharma cried, A charioteer with sky-born hue, Spoke words not old, but ever new. He spoke not for gold, nor throne, nor fame, But of duty done without the claim. “Work not for self,” his voice did rise, “But for the good beneath all skies.” A flute he held, but not for song, For justice was his music long. He danced with cowherds, poor and free, No lords or slaves — just unity. He shattered caste with subtle smile, A god who walked the extra mile. He stood with Sudama, shared his crust, For love, not gold, was Krishna’s trust. He saw no king in silken thread, Nor bowed to men the market fed. “Break the chain,” his gaze would urge, “Where greed begins, let truth emerge.” No temples held his soul confined, He lived where hunger met the mind. He led not armies for command, But taught the bow to serve the land. So paint him not in royal blue — But give his skin a rebel’s hue. The red of flame, ...

 The first monsoon drop, a whisper on my pane, Calls back Yamuna—her cool, dark breath of rain. Her essence fills the humid Vrindavan air, A primal rhythm stirring old despair. She came like storm, a wild and fierce desire, That taught my heart to ache with burning fire. Her voice, unspoken, in the drumming sound, A melody of pain on hallowed ground. Then softens rain to gentle, persistent grey, And Radha blooms—the light of waking day. Her quiet strength, a prayer in finest silk, A steady gaze, like sweet and calming milk. With Yamuna, passion’s consuming art, With Radha, profound peace embraced my heart. My soul, a dancer, poised on fragile thread, Between the moonless night and dawn’s soft bed. One yearned for wild, untamed and deeply vast, The other sought the certainty to last. In fleeting moments, caught in their distinct gaze, I felt entirely whole in love’s sweet maze. Yet mist-like, both, in their own ways, took flight, And vanished softly into endless night. When the rain...

" Before the storm, a choice is made, To walk with care, or leave a blade. Let every thread and woven seam, Reflect the Earth, not just a dream." In the hush of dawn, a whispering shade, A guardian unseen, in shadows it’s laid. From rugged roots to nimble craft’s art, A silent sentinel, steadfast at heart. Once raw and primal, a sticky embrace, Now woven with care, a tender grace. A shield in storms, a comfort spun tight, Turning fleeting fears into quiet light. Across wet fields where labor leans low, And hands toil steady in the storm's slow flow, Bright plastic coats in red and blue, Wrap the weary in something true. A lifeline worn where skies won't wait, A humble grace in a working state. Through muddy trails and factory gates, The coat endures, it advocates. When rain begins its rhythmic dance, And clouds in somber gray advance, The coat unfurls—a vivid glow, A promise that the storm won’t overthrow. In alleys loud with laughter and cheer, Children splash withou...

  Sweetness in life—I’ve come to know it well, In moments that shimmer, like a soft caramel. It calls to me gently, a comforting song, In fruit on my tongue, in places I belong. I’ve tasted its whispers in kind, simple deeds, In laughter that bubbles and answers my needs. I’ve basked in the warmth of a lazy sunbeam, And shared chai by moonlight, lost in a dream. A hand in my own—how tightly I’d cling, Love in its essence, not needing a ring. Those are the moments that sweeten my soul, Filling the cracks and making me whole. Then come the days when we gather and cheer, The cake, the candles, the ones I hold dear. Music surrounds me, our feet meet the floor, With streamers above us and hearts that soar. In those bursts of joy, I feel life ignite, A permission to revel, to shine, to delight. Yet somewhere inside, I’ve learned to discern, That sweetness too rich can quickly burn. I’ve known the weight of indulgence unchecked, The sugar that soothed, then left me wrecked. When blood tur...

  When shadows lengthen, and the path grows dim, And whispers rise, "There's no hope for him!" Remember then, the fire in your soul, A burning ember, making you whole. The world may push, may try to break your stride, And doubts may tempt you, deep within to hide. But feel the rhythm, strong within your chest, A silent promise, putting fear to rest. For every fall, a chance to rise anew, A lesson learned, a clearer, bolder view. The strength you seek, it isn't far away, It sleeps within you, waiting for the day. So lift your gaze, beyond the present pain, Embrace the sunshine, even through the rain. Your spirit's canvas, waiting for your art, A masterpiece of courage, from your heart. Believe in purpose, woven in your being, A symphony of dreams, forever freeing. Though winds may rage, and storms may loudly roar, You hold the compass, leading to your shore. You are the sculptor, shaping your own fate, You are the artist, at life's open gate. Let passion guide ...