The colour has no caste no religion
Just fetterless as a crowned pigeon,
The sun never marks any division
What's red, green, black or saffron.

All the colour is a single entity,
Like the author's artistic creativity;
And upon the asleep city
The moon mirrors itself - the beauty.

The colour is a life of how to live-
Taking a role of a new leaf,
It is a sugarcoated rose you sip
How orphean! Do believe.

Money is not a verb to the colour
That a poet knows very well:
A girl of not going to parlour
She is pretty still, at cottage dwell.

It was a winter evening, the sun had to go early.
I could hear the cry of our dear cat, his sunken eyes wished
to tell a pathetic story, steps tattered and wished to
say-''I am too exhausted to walk''.
His broken voice
reminded me the broken string of my heart that
I played oneday,
he hid the thick tears
behind the curtain of his patheic joy as the
water hides itself into the ice.
I remember
I fed him that last evening but
who knew he would run
away on a secrect way
from the sweet garden of paradise to the world of Pluto.

In the morning I did see the cat lying on the
comfortable
bed of ruthless death.
I fetched milk to drink him.
He drank unconsciously I supposed.
When I called a divine call, the cat left his last breath
Lifting his right leg as if blessed me that was
incredible but credible.
I paused for a while like a dead tree.
It seemed the air lost its way, the sky lost
its beauty,
the sun forgot to shine up, oh, how pathetic it was!

Today I can hear the sound of the ***** and the ground
they made a little room together for our dear cat,
my father digged.
I made his bed under the ground with my own hands.
But I couldn't provide a single lamp
for his dark room.
He looked like Seamus Heaney's the tollund man.

Often I dream our dear cat is alive and cheery, but
Oh, in reality he is no more.
Although he speaks a lot today
such as a silent portrait hanging on the white wall.
Ah, my heart aches!

All say the NIGHT is nothing but you
After repellent darkness a day new,
The firefly that takes the PRIDE
Is none other than luminescent light,
A bud gets its fulfilment lonely
In darkness is YOU(mother) the latency,
The sun has got the ball of fire
From YOU, O SWEET MOTHER!
The cloud is devoid of guile white
Sailing in the space so bright:
Whiteness of impeccability is yours
The golden wings that the sun endures,
The moon is smiling among the stars
Glowing like thousand of night flowers.

O Mother: the beauty of the beauties
Give me endless strength as the bliss
To ruin the weaknesses inside me.
The ointment to the grave wounds
Is MOTHER KALI the power no bounds
I bend my HEAD down to thee!

I am Misti--, didn't get it?
Misti(sweetness) is my name,
My grandmother gave me that
Honor, I'm too grateful.
I'm going to 8 months
This November soon,
My limbs are
Not properly working now,
As a little bird fears to fly
Into the sky, below the mountain,
I am quite like that: I can't
Hold my legs sticked to ground.
My voice is like the groaning
Of the cloud you can hear but
Not to decode the meaning.
I want to speak with definite
Sense but my tongue
Slips, it reminds my age:
I'm very delighted for having
Such a temple where mom, dad,
Grandfather, grandmother and uncles
(Mee too) all together.

O, grandfather! I'm too little to climb
On your shoulder, I want to take
Repose there.
But don't worry grandpa, very soon
I'll grow up & I'll be there.
When I'll complete my two years,
Promise me: you'd be my horse &
I'll take a ride on you.
Thinking so, much pleasure I'm
Feeling with supreme verve:
But I can't make my words way.

Dear grandpa! when I grow up,
I'll go to the field to feed you:
The cool rice with water, onion,
Green chilli and boiled potato
I'll carry all in a *** on my
Little head.
When you consume the food,
I'll be busy catching the grasshoppers then, how glad I'd be!

I know you are all worried
About my unskilled thinking,
Of course, that should be!
But you all have forgot one thing:
I'm the MUSE of my dearest uncle!

No pen has sufficient ink
To dig into the mother;
No writer has enough brains
To attribute upon her the beauty
Of words,
No painter is able to sketch
The mother with his immature hand,
She is a silent power:
She is the brightest of the brights;
The strongest of the strengths ;
She is the softest of the softs;
The most beautiful of the beauties;
She is the bravest of the braves;
The mother is the life of the lives;
The stillness of the innate objects;
We are nothing without having her;
She is the kernel of ALL lives & things.

Life can recognise
Caste, religion and colour-
A disease of three symptoms:
Caste is engaged with skirmish,
Religion flares up with sudden
Intensity of furiousness, and
Colour creates dissociation.

None but DEATH is constant:
He never plays the role of an actor,
He never does judge on caste, religion And colour:
He believes that there is no gap
Between the palace and the hut.

The DREAM never keeps your word
If you play with it,
A tree produces a thousand seeds
Into fruits,
Numberless lives in sleep can be stirred
At anytime.
The tree drops the mature fruits
Upon the ground,
The wind leads them to sleep and
To stand up like the newborn babies,
If the tree had a hand keeping the fruit
In the sun and not dropped it,
The seed couldn't get a new journey.
Do work honestly without any self-interest:
Believe the WORK you are doing,
Never STOP in thinking of RESULT.