On a lone winter evening,
The sun dipped over the horizon,
Awaiting its blithe.
The sky thoughtful and desiderate.
The twinkling of the sky,
Will soon fly.
Heaven is propounded,
Human mind is disrupted.
The unsteady murmur of insects,
The shrill voices of people.
Exonerates the cold, fog sunken air.
The evening walls down along the harbour.
The moon mightier than ever,
Lusting it's magical glow.
On Fantasies and realities of the time.
Hereby the night flows,
From the courtyards of the rich,
To the rags of the of the woebgoene,
And the brok
Shall rise.
And rise, And rise,
And rise again,

On that lone winter evening.
-Arunav Hazarika

The taste of true wine,
isn't the one that makes you,
paint crimson skies in your life,
when clouds of benevolence and doom,
control the cup of life.

The true taste of wine,
Is naive and benign.
It undresses your soul,
and tangles with your language.
until you find the truths,
you never had the courage to stumble on.
The true taste of wine,
often makes you the magician,
by living your life with you,
But making your realise there's always more.
To be done, felt and lived.
There is always more to melancholy,
as there is, to the language of the lips.

The sky twirling at bay,
Melodies of summer in May,
Heat stroking farther, forever
In this oblivious weather,
The wind flies high,
Darkness regretted, Light calls,
To enervate the recreated world,
The maze of life,
Is regrettable,
Unforgettable.
But as summer calls,
So do the loving and dead,
And, thus,
The unforgettable becomes forgettable.

Her words danced like wine on my lips,
poetry in my soul and
ecstasy in my heart.

Degree by degree,
the cold grew outside, numbing all,
in it's way.
The fog bowed down and apprenticed.
But inside, you pulled me closer,
and scales of temperature suddenly seemed,
A lot less important to measure anything.
In unison, our warmth dissipated into each other,
as we knew,
The cold wasn't the only thing growing outside,
but our love too.

Morrow of yes-terday.
I found myself in the Morrow of Yes-terday.
In the future of the past, it's foriegn to me cause it's never like what I had dreamt in the yesterday.
what are dreams anyway?
If not an extravagant conceit of some imagination, hallucinations, a facade..