Here lies the dead wishes of men
once alive
the dense shrubs hide the pain
weeds thrive.

Here lies a grieving heart
once much joyous
the windows are broken and hurt
bricks break like glass.

Here lies the power of wealth
once pompous
now in ruined health
seems it wasn't all that precious.

Here lies the remains of heydays
once vibrant
with bones the jackal plays
reminds time is a tyrant.

Here lies moss on the wall
once finely painted
now dark and dull
the air is serpent scented.

In the cadence of a chai-stained dream,
Are you the spice that lingers, or a fleeting sugar high?
Will this yearning ripen into a love supreme,
Or fade like a forbidden beneath a starlit sky?

The ancient verses whisper on the wind, they say,
"Can even the Himalayas predict the monsoon's sway?"
A tempest of emotions, a monsoon in my heart,
Why this chasm between us, where two souls can't quite start?

You, a valley lush with melody, your voice a cascading stream,
And I, a concrete jungle yearning for a wilder theme.
Would you bloom in the chaos, this urban symphony?
For I confess, my darling, I am a creature of dependency.

In hushed tones, beneath the city's gentle hum,
I crave the rhythm of your being, a thrum against my own drum.
Let our bodies be the bridge, hearts whispering in the near,
For in this closeness, darling, all distance disappears.

Deliver me, with magic spell,
with gliding bow and ringing bell,
from this dark and dreary mood so fell.

The clock counts its minutes and its hours;
we obey its rhythmic, ordered powers
in the prisons of our shining towers.

The clock is but an artifice
from a tyrant’s workshop’s abyss.
Time was made for more than this.

Count not the hours, but the beat,
tap it with your dancing feet,
clap it, sing it, in the street.

A flute of bone was made before
the timecard and the clock kept score.
Our forbears knew what time was for.