A Madwoman

A madwoman, Of her time,
Smiled to men, talked define,
Laugh to glory, with sillies and follies,
Set side by side, with men of her time. 

“A hussy, jade.”

A madwoman, Of her time,
With love and roses, wedded divine.
Scorn her scars, smile her scorns,
All to when he low to his lies.

“A weak, afraid.”

A deep sigh, gulp within,
Stood strong, against all the winds,
No fear, no fall in all the odds,
No win to him, no falls behind.

“A madwoman, of all times.”

-Yoshi Vats



To the night like every other,
Stars up high, and the moon ally,
Between the chaos of hush & rush,
We and Us in this flash of hours.

Chipper-chortle over brewed coffee,

And Hills of folly framing humour…


To the night like every special,
Cool clime and all the slumber,
Between the addle of fate and final,
We and us in this fragment of illusion.

Simper smirk over brewed thinking,
I fall to sleep with the night in corner.

-Yoshi Vats



One winter morning, I tried looking outside my window.
The glass was closed with frost.
Picked up an old piece of cloth and tried cleaning the haze.
To look outside, to look the snow.

As the cover unlayered, the wave of heat gushed inwards.
The scorching heat, the traded winds,
All were very unwelcomed,
In this summer, In this noon.

Sitting beside my fireplace,
Started to scribble my thoughts in pace,
Calling it in slow, one tale and then other before,
Closely walking away from the end in a row.

Knocked door, and call to rise.
From summer nap to this life,
Time was to toil the daily grind,
As birth of soul is dearth twined.

Life is an illusion.
Crafted and weaved as we ardour,
Fancy and the fervour as we choose,
And carving one lane from diverse roads.

Being in an illusion, all this life,
Crating the regrets since all times,
In act to shrug, of all the forgotten,
Remember, Life is but an ILLUSION!

-Yoshi Vats 



In the silence of the night,
Little Feet tapped the aisle,
Of her love, in her world,
Of the castles of the sand.

In the morning with the rise,
With the glow of new red,
Arrives the spring of new tide,
Of the emotions, in a heap of a pile.

Red was her scar or scar was red?
Stain all caste, Strain every self,
Shed her castle, chained her thoughts,
Quest her chaste and Smeared her red.

Red is a colour of dusk and dawn,
Red is for every end and rise,
Let it drift in the saintly seed,
Let her bleed, Let me bleed.

-Yoshi Vats


The dusk, call !

Dark was near to some but not,
And light was stepping slow,
Called in high, the stirred dusk,
In heaps of all the ardor.

Smiled love, and tangled aside,
Grinned the troubles, which after,
Dive thee to the drop,
In still of all the dither.

Myth is in the shades of day and dark,
Dread not the mind for so but long,
In the notch of words played so hard,
Be the seer in the dusk of call.

                                                                           -Yoshi Vats



The shades of soot, in sight,
In eyes of close, or of foes,
Weaved words veiled or not,
To hide the truth but not. 

Sway and sore the deep of much,
From thy words of verb of each,
And then thee fear the sense of pith,
Till the end, of the arc of sledge.

The shades of blue, insight,
In eyes of mine, and thee soul,
Weaved runes of my fair thoughts,
Of all good deed of the times.

Tale it and tell it, and stay it firm,
From all odds of the shades of soot,
Know thy words of all the troth,
To the long last of all shades.

           -Yoshi Vats