Fine Composition.

retro turntable playing vinyl disc in living room

A fine composition,

Written in broken notes,

And was played on a keyboard.

The composition couldn’t be heard,

As the musicians moved on,

But the tune lived on forever,

Hidden in an old diary,

Beckoning to no one.

Not even a soul knew that existed until recently,

And when it was incorporated in a film music,

It was played as an ad-lib,

Gaining much popularity,

In the insides of the music world,

There was much hulaboo,

About who had composed the tune,

And when it was known,

The hitherto musician,

Got much larger gigs,

And success was with him.



A Soul.

A soul said to me,

The sun is blue,

And the moon is red.

Keep the sky in the drawer,

And say the rest.

Keep on playing.

The harmonica,

The beautician’s magic.

I am the one behind the curtains,

Let the colours finish.

I said-“What are you saying?”

He said-“I didn’t say anything.

It was the saying of the truth.” 

Who knows?


Isn’t It A Piece Of Cake?

Isn’t It A Piece Of Cake?

Isn’t it a piece of cake?

To say hi to one’s beloved.

To rock the cradle,

To say morning to the night.

To say how do you do?

To reach the moon,

And to dream of the stars?

Isn’t it?

Isn’t it a piece of cake?

Easy to avoid truth?

To go round and round,

Yet to mislead?

Isn’t it a piece of cake?

To love someone.

Or not.

Isn’t it?


Poetry, Tributaries.



Are a wonder of nature.

From a river,

Either big or small,

Flow around the laid said path,

Quenching the thirst and needs of millions who come in her way.

Sometimes, a tributary makes new paths and way,

It is the beauty and miracle of the lord that,

He blesses the humanity,

Though they are much far apart.

Like a tributary, Lord himself is unknown,]

Who knows?

One day,

When he might show himself,

Beholden in his majestical wooden throne.