I wake up from a relatively restful slumber; Vividly recalling that somehow, I hadn't dreamt. Or, was it that I had but it encompassed nothing worth remembering? Like an hourglass without sand; A quill without ink. I meander through empty corridors ; they're not empty, they merely seem so. These paintings, they don't whisper to me; They don't tell me of their origin. They don't make me laugh until my eyes water, And they don't elucidate how when the artist wants to depict tears of joy , he holds the brush differently; Dilutes the colour to a different degree. They don't tell me that this play of colour has behind it a profound science of molarity. (which too, unsurprisingly they don't explain) They don't discuss how my innate love for art and philosophy and history is inextricable from science because although a scepter once haunted Europe and largely dissipated, a new one awaits its turn, patiently, yet certainly. I turn to the lamp, ...
Life is a genesis Of gentle nuances A prologue to a novel self authored Life is akin to a crystal crystallising A bud flowering A tale commencing Death is a termination Of mortal existence A quietus of the revel that was life A denouement of mortal suffering A foreword of divinity A novel birth A christening performed by stars And wished upon by the sky Blessed by the moon And cherished by the sun Life is the demise of darkness And death is the enlightenment of the soul Both equating to an eradication of ignorance Life is the dawn of night And death - the onset of sanctity. ~Ananyaa Joshi
Proud and strong With iron wrung Beholden to none The legendary one A hard-earned name Complimented by fame Menacing to tame Flaming mane Fervent eyes Ardent snarl Precarious beauty Zealous soul And the jungle's own A lion- proud and strong Beholden to none. ~Ananyaa Joshi
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