Painted Mirror with a twist of ‘Where the Walls Meet’ & ‘Home Cooked Verse’. [ A Meal’s Prompt]
Sometimes parables come, to the relish of the abundance of food, of a fervid viand in a fastfood: It’ll pass in the form of a filthy kid, whose teeny-tiny fingers and wretched palms will be adherent to the refulgence and chasteness of crystal cleared window, and to his departure, because of your indifference indicated by the aversion of your gaze, the terms will be left as sticking dirt on the glass, until removed, polished with scourer’s abstertions, rub with white capped liquid, shipshape detergent and a streamy sponge in conjunction with wiping the perspiring hand on the sweaty brow.
Sometimes parables come in the midst of profound serene of slumber: To startle you one dawn, in the darkest hour of night before the first rays of light came, was a tacit mystical woman harkening to the impulse; awakening her minds eyes body rise, went to the dinette, asked herself, “How’s the verse cooked?” Little did she knew; behold at the memory of an trivet archaistic yesterday, she cooked it on the rig of spiciness from bittersweet aches, the sweetness caused by his makeshift love. From failures, she squeeze the bitterness and blend it with the acerbities of poison. Now, the flavor that springs from it In the intensity of rage, she boiled it.
Before she serve the latent cooked verse, she mollified it first with the cooked of delight, and when the spirit of table is set, she share the dish prepared!
हमने आपकी रचनाएँ पढ़ी, वह सभी अद्वितिय हैं। हम आपको अपनी नई पुस्तक में सहयोग देने के लिए आमंत्रित करना चाहते हैं। पुस्तक आपके नाम के साथ प्रकाशित होगी साथ उसकी प्रतियां भी आपको दी जाएंगी। आपको सम्मानित करते हुए स्वर्ण पदक भी दिया जाएगा।
अधिक जानकारी के लिए संपर्क करें।
धन्यवाद Insta - kanis.hkasharma420 Mail - firstname.lastname@example.org
Supper: Oh! My supper, you wait for me; Your Presence is ephemeral, But the aroma is soul satisfying. Day's turmoil, Duty's tension, Mind's unrest all you control. Yes, you leave To fill the starving stomach And eyes become a nonfunctional clock So unaware that time will gallop to bring the next day's emotions. #meal #wod
A letter to a mother, asking for not to force her to get marry soon
A long piece
20-5-21 1:16 a.m.
I ain't ready to marry, mummy Don't let me to marry by force He doesn't fall in category of human, mummy He is just attracted to my bodily appearance He never tried to listen what I need Mummy, please I beg you Don't let me to tie knot by force I deserve someone better, but not him Mummy! Mummy! Whom will you choose? Your daughter or will you listen to that astrologer? Who said you "she should marry before the age of twenty-fifth years of her life?" Why mummy? Am I not capable to buy clothes for me? As I not worthy to fulfill my basic needs? Why mummy, you hand over me to an unknown place? Mummy! I beg you I ain't ready to marry Society is made of us, you, me and them Is my voice not able to break the barriers of shackles of my life?
Every night he peeled off my skin As if I am a delicious dish in his dinner plate Why mummy, you let me in to marry? I weep, oppose from the initial time Why do you have to always listen to that astrologer? Why mummy? Is that astrologer more important than my life?
This. is no less than a marital rape He wants a chicks in his dinner plate everyday Without any emotions involved from my side He polluted the sacred term "marriage" Those slaps, odour of wine, marks on face, hand Sometimes pulling me by holding my hair in a tight grip Why mummy you force me to marry?
If I share about my relationship People called me vulgar "Look! How one can be ungrateful towards own husband?"
Mummy, do I deserve this I bear everything But this time I quit I choose to hang myself I know you and Baba gave my every things that I asked for But this time, I beg you to give me to live freely But you and Baba believed in those superstitions Which lead to this consequences I am sorry mummy We will meet again after this life Where there is a peaceful world Where a voice of girl is not unheard Where superstitions doesn't exist Pollution free world Mummy, this is not the relationship That you and Baba have You, and Baba have a serenity in your bond Unfortunately not in mine
I quit to live, mummy I did everything what always you all want me to do, mummy But this time I spoke to live freely, independently Yet you choose to select the stranger instead of me
Mental health! What does it defines? Who cares about mental health? It's more dangerous than you think, mummy Depression! It's more dangerous than death'
Donation of a meal is the bestest donation which gives full satisfaction to both the donor and the receiver. "The capacity of one's stomach has its limits." We cannot overload with more and more for the greed of food.
Donation of any other form other than "food" increases the greed to have more.
Dinner was the last served meal I had before this catastrophe. The meal was hope served with the aura of echoing prayers. It had the mellow of sandalwood and catalyst rendering fainting of riots.
Freedom was the epitaph on grey walls of custody, the dullness being the custodian promised a reality. The epitaph murmured a narrative, a part of the unheard melodies. The fountain water was tired of flowing, the flow made her eyes drown deep inside the chasm of limitations.
The bowl of advices, The realm of happiness, Stood bare feet looking at the mirror day and night and backyard of achievements stood aside, watching faces.
They were watching faces. They were watching faces which do not match with their own, the faces were lying in run over corners of happiness, they are still not served even with the breakfast. They are served with poverty prior to empty bowls.
Dinner was the last meal before our conversation that brought us the satisfaction of our day, the eulogy to appetite but see how these empty bowls are still vagabonds with their masters.
candid_over_coffeeC'mon! You really penned down such an apt poem on meals? Like, literal meals! Apart from the philosophies and creativity, you're carving out such beautiful poetries based on the simplest of things in life as well?! Hmmm, bragging, I see. (just teasing:))