In a lonely tree, old and breaking,
a hornbill sat, waiting for rain.
Like a shadow, it shared the silence
that bloomed along the brittle branches.

Years passed—no drop to quench his thirst.
They told him, “Leave. The rain never finds this tree.”
But he clung still, to withered limbs,
his feathers falling with the leaves,
his eyes sunken deep with thirst.

Then, one fine day,
a drop finally kissed the cursed tree,
sliding gently through its faded leaves.

But the hornbill did not move.
He did not drink.
The years of waiting
had made him forget the rain.

And though the tree was showered
for many seasons more,
no one remained
to hold on to its branches.

A Melody lingering in the wind
astray in the little game of time.
A bend in my straightened fate,
a misfit that fits so perfectly.

A love like a paper boat,
floating to its final breath.
You kept me alive
as fate pulled my heart away.

Like a lantern—empty,
yet rising in your love's fire.
All the smiles you gave me,
I'll crave in these stones that mask you,
And turn them into flowers
for you to lie beneath.