If then by the river where tears are hung low and stream albeit with its flow, then I must remind myself to fly with the blueness of my sacred scars.

I must peek around the bushes of this musky forest and hung low beneath the painted glass sky, where painted by shallow blue and bland pinkish canvas and clouds hanging grey and brisk.

I must learn to be still where birds flee when they gather around my presence and sing screeches of pain and hope.

I must lie down the billowy surge of these big waves that tries to weigh me down; for I must learn how to sing under the water and keep my nose dry and eyes swelling while I was beneath the painted glass sky.

For even when the trinket beads of my sweats holler at the sight of my numb hands and feet carried away by the quantum of the deep blue sea and the way it glorify the kiss of the clouds,

I must be like the rain so I can stay gloomy forever and the river may have its story to tell how its philanthropy saved me from a bucket of bloods from the war.

यह नदियां यूँ ही बहती रहेंगी
लाशो को गवाह बनाकर
उस दर्द का जो "वे" इनकार करते रहे

In my solitary hours,
haunted by the silence
of this silvery river,
with trees scattered on its banks
I heard soft whispers
from every leaf.
A soft and peculiar chant,
mumbling sorrows and despair to
my melancholic soul.
My swift glimpse on the silent, still water revealed
a stranger,
A girl though left lucid yet
drowned and lost.
Silenced by the heavy
ripples of grief,
Dim thoughts began to steal
the river’s song.
Now I’m slipping into the water depths,
In the midst of these soundless murmurs,
all alone.

History likes to repeat itself
But sometimes it likes to change
The curve in the river
Will start going straight
And the walls on the castle
Are now crumbling down

But then a new river is formed
And a new wall is built
And history starts all over again

Maybe it does repeat itself