Too Many Sometimes

Sometimes love doesn’t need words;

you can smell it in a shy fragrant smile

But then, you see what you want to see;

from up close, even when away by a mile

Sometimes there is and was no love at all;

you just chose to assume love in a guile


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The Graveyard of Dead Dreams – A Mini Opera

     Legend tells us that away from the hustle and bustle of life and beyond the light of the setting sun, there is a forest – the emerald forest of imagination. Deep within this forest is the silver pool of glimmering desires. Surrounding the pool, are the grey boulders of regret and on one of those boulders, sat an old man dressed in a tattered black robe. He held his head within his palms and was pulling on his grey hair in anguish.
‘Oh! I had a dream and that dream just died;
Oh! My poor dream has breathed her very last
‘But where has my poor dream vanished away?
You must know, you’re my Present and my Past’


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The Eternal Hitchhiker

People call him the eternal hitchhiker,

he hitches rides onto shooting stars

Hoping to reach some peaceful planet,

away from all the chaos, the raging wars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he pays a certain heavy price

He pays it with a piece of his heart;

each time sadly, an odd roll of dice

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Green Tara and the Man Who was Lost – A Short Opera

The man was tired of walking for long in the cold desert. The sand was almost silver and stung his feet with the chill from last night. An equally tired grey sun failed to warm the sand grains. And then when he had almost lost hope, Green Tara suddenly appeared out of thin air.


The man fell to his knees, joined his hands in supplication and addressed the goddess:

O Green Tara, the tear drop of Avalokiteshvara;

have mercy on me for I have sought you for long

You are the goddess of all those who are lost;

and I have lost myself, correct me if I am wrong

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The Fate of a Failed Hero

Receding deep into yourself, being enfolded in layers;

blanking out the chaos of complicated relationships

Tightly wrapped within a cocoon of your icy cold self;

the harsh and cruel reality, the one and final eclipse

That is your nirvana, that is your long torturous bliss;

that’s what’s written by fate, in all its useless scripts

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