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!