The scent of petrichor,
The sound of thunder,

In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee?

In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee.

Perhaps—
In the middle of the night,
A Mother remembers her martyred son.

Perhaps—
In the middle of the night,
Some glasses clink in celebration.

The world is twisted,
The world is baffled.

Some are guilty of their dead daughter.
Some grieve their long-lost son.

Some people hide,
Some people sigh.

Some drink coffee,
Some drink beer.

But,
In the middle of the night,
I am drinking coffee.

Bitter,
Sweet,
And alive.

A thousand people in a street,
A thousand eyes that’ll meet—
A million personalities in a street,

Some to work,
Some to school,
Some to steal,
Some to fool,

Few are drunk,
Few are poor,
Few to lie,
Few to fly.

A thousand sighs in a street,
A thousand sorrows to tolerate,
A million stories incomplete—

Few slept deep
Few wept in a sheet.

Few to study,
Few to work.

A thousand people in a street.
A thousand griefs that repeat,
A million hearts that skip a beat—

Ephemeral things.

The beauty of the sunset is ephemeral,
Yet, it leaves an impression on one’s soul.

The beauty of a rainbow is ephemeral,
Yet, it lingers— a reverie in flight,

Why, then, are beautiful souls so brief?
Do they burn too fiercely, too brightly?
Does the world drain their essence,
Leaving only echo in night?

Are ethereal things not meant to stay?
In this dreadful, weary, sphere?
Was it just a dream?
Was it just like a dream?