Sitting on the banks of an afternoon a butterfly and myself were sipping the perfume of a flower. Sun had spread up to the heights of Oak trees. This is an ideal niche for a soul yearning for a place not trampled by human path. On the spur of that very movement

I rushed into myself.

How few of us are left behind like the last rays of this setting century how much we have achieved, how lonely we are , If we were to write only our sorrows and sufferings how much ink would go waste The new century would not forgive us it would make us stand before the jury of history and enforce its sentence

Oh! When Life is being dragged, tied to this gigantic wheel we realise how helpless creatures we are

Waves of life ebb and flow deepening my loneliness, seasons of spring come, cuckoos sing times of years and silver my hair, take me back to the universe of formlessness.

The sun sliding in to river is an orb. shadow of sun breaks into pieces and washed away in the river waters. Shadows of even mountains and trees tremble in waters. Creation may feel that it is a stoic greatness but to the stream of river creation is disconcerted pieces

But every day sky lays a red egg called sun and rooster announces sun’s daily engagements.