Fourlinegraphia

  ************** The first light whispers softly in saffron morning hue. Across my quiet window spreads a gentle waking dawn. In many Indian homes a story begins like this- A mother’s patient love awakening the day. * Before the rising sun I wake with sleepy eyes. Like countless mothers starting quiet morning chores. The house still rests beneath the pale and waking sky, While quiet hands prepare the rhythm of the day. * “Betta, wake up now, the morning sun has come,” I call. My daughter slowly rises from her drifting dreams. She smiles softly, still wrapped inside her dream-world. While pale gold light slips softly through the window bars. * Her uniform waits pressed with ribbons ready to tie. Two patient braids fall gently down her shoulders now. Sleepy laughter slowly fills the quiet morning room. Morning sunlight warms the silent walls of home. * The scent of cardamom slowly fills the warm air. The kitchen wakes with spices ground by careful hands. A steamed banana waits beside...

  In God’s vast poem she was a passing line, A quiet shadow drifting through the text. Her colors faded in the writer’s dark ink, A dream that time had slowly washed away. She had no name that echoed through the lines, No weight to bend the rhythm of the tale. She came and went like wind through empty rooms, A fleeting step between important scenes. The pages where the spring of love once flowed Had long grown dry beneath repeating words. She spoke the same old lines the story gave, A dull refrain of days that never changed. Within a half-written and wandering tale She was a patch between unfinished thoughts, A seam the writer placed to hold the thread Of something larger she could never see. But in a silent corner of the page A question stirred beneath the printed lines: “Why must I live inside this narrow space? Why should my life be written by your ink?” That day the ink that shaped her fragile world Could not command her wandering spirit’s will. The fences built by chapters cra...

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...