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  • forestborn 2w

    ���� ���� �������������� ���� ������ ���������� ���� ������������?
    �������� ���������������� ���������� ���� ������ ������.

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    Where the sicilian flames touch the naked layers of boundless ocean, empyrean sky sing the saddest lines of gold on the origami horizon. There, the wayward stars are weaverbirds of time seeking homeless poems embedded on her delicate lipstick stains. Perhaps with every pause of the wind which turns the light into ruins, the waves wait a bit longer for our pulse to sail through the storms like a paper boat beyond the depth of the lost treasures of memoirs. Last year's burn marks on the sun-drenched faces began to heal the bruises of the moon, yet your smile, which i kept inside, still lingers like a handful of magnolia flowers longing for another endless night. Can we able to defeat fate by embracing the wounds of autumn this time to shed the painful leaves and re-emerge as a silent spring, like two unfamiliar seasons caught in the snares of barren solitude?
    ©

  • forestborn 6w

    ���������� ������ ���������� ���������� ������ ������������, ���������� ������������ ������������������ ����������,

    ��onsciousness is an inborn ability buried in the rebellion of timelessness when many fail to imbibe the data of minute observations that propel the psyche from the contextual environment due to shorter attention span. We are metamorphosed into diabolical skin bags of satisfaction as the waves of pain are constantly being broadcasted across the universe from millions of sacrifices that cannot be concealed through grace.

    ��magine for a second you were transposed into a karmic driven world of time moving in the wheels of dharma carrying a sustainable existence. If so, could you be satisfied with the many of the reputations you have achieved so far without giving conscientious care to your fellow living things around you? The branches of the deep soul connection that the olive trees of change begin to create in you become feeble as the sacred forests which have been enslaved to so long dehydration are liberated by wearing wildfire skirts.

    ��f the whole world is considered as a cluster of gigantic neuron, the transference of thoughts from one species to another is a viable possibility, as long as you know how to perceive them with the combined effort of your senses. From there onwards you can learn how the orphaned wild bees turn words left in broken honey jars of premature spring into heartfelt poems. Thoughts awaken like torches to light the world gone wrong beyond the windows as we welcome the soul into the primeval green living spirit that transforms the dancing wind into autumn snowflakes.

    ��ou can feel the growling cold water slowly dissolving your introvert flesh, while the northern lights rushes and decorate the murdered leaves with knitting blizzards of the hell. How can you enjoy the splitted lines of agonizing music that orchestrate through the heartbeat of the debacle as the frozen rivers stand still in the awakening eyes of the night? If you want to know the inner conflict or the helplessness of a caged bird you have to turn yourself into a bird. You can see the sun rising and setting every day from the same angle of grievance, but you can never experience the colossal amount of energy it delivers to flare up the ray of hope.

    ��olorful feathers wrapped around your wrinkled skin may be a rainbow in the eyes of others, but even light feathers can be a burden to you when you begin to hate the process of living without freedom. If the blue clouds had fallen to the ground, I could have drawn a million pictures of the tears in my eloquent eyes apologizing so many times to that four-legged animal that was forced to drink ujaala water to quench its thirst from the open bucket. If some windows are not closed they will become an empire of wounds inflicted on the mind where the king and queen are proclaimed as pain for centuries.

    ��e have a lot to learn from even the miniscule ants which live in harmony and balance when we build walls infront of each other and deny the help. Some pray for miracles, like butterflies caught in a snare, while others come out as lizards that cut off their tails and deceive their prey in self-defense. The ladybirds that often visit to suck on the cashew apples hidden in the lawn often cry and fade away in the evenings while seeing the unborn fetus suffer in the after effects of raining endosulfan.

    �� handful of skeleton neckalces hanging from the thorns of cacti selling water on the sidewalks to half fill the stomach while homosapiens kill one another by serving poisoned dishes on the dining tables. The winter still haunts the skin incessantly in the sun-drenched lands from the hills that have been razed to the ground for gold. The changing seasons become a curse when the red crabs and brown squirrels that are a constant sight in the paddy fields and my ancestral home disappear like the moon on the waning shoulders of flaming candles.

    ��he bodies of the silkworms may still be floating in the boiling sea as unfulfilled dreams of weavers sublimate when the artistry skies sell plastic bottles in interstellar argosy. The serpents that once guarded the sacred groves have become broken moribund bridges that peel off the epidermis of development while greeting the dead rivers. We are living in a brutal system which forcefully steal the sacrosanctity in the heart of a child. Everytime thoughts plummet towards gravity our breaths can no longer withstand the weight of countless other lives which are going to suffer after us.

    ��ivilization is hollowing out romanticizing the chaos in countless journeys where only the polished face are adored or adorned without realizing the stains of the mud on the bare feet. There are a lot of people who repudiate the seriousness with much audacity however for those who live with an eco-green heart, connecting oneself deep within the roots is a gift in their soul. We are bamboo bushes roaming in the aching transverse waves. When the innocuous trees joins us together, there creates a magical melody of the flute, but when the sun joins hands together wildfire swallows our every lines.
    ����-����-��������

    P. S- Too late to bring me flowers, I'm gone with the wind.

    ഹൃദയ ഘട്ടികാരങ്ങളിലെ സൂചികൾ നിലച്ചു, വെഞ്ചാമരങ്ങൾ വീശാൻ തുരുമ്പിന്റെ ഗന്ധം പേറുന്ന കാറ്റിന്റെ അസുര ജന്മങ്ങൾ മാത്രം. വിശുദ്ധമായ ആകാശത്തിനെ ബലി കൊടുക്കുമ്പോൾ വാക്കുകളാൽ വാർത്തെടുത്ത വാളുകളിൽ രക്തത്തിൽ കുതിർന്ന ഒരു പര്യവസാനം. നന്ദി.

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    An artist in hell
    Released the mighty dragons
    Wildfire swallows lies

    No more maps to burn
    Beauty always comes with pain
    clouds are painted urns

    Axes and chain saws
    Venerable trees got killed
    Kulning songs unheard

    Flagrant injustice
    Slaughtering of the rainbows
    Ink clots red rose rhymes


    ~The needles in the heartbeats stopped, only the demonic births of the wind that smelled of rust whizzing away. An end to the blood-soaked swords cast by words while sacrificing the holy heavens. Thanks~

    ©

  • forestborn 7w

    ������ ������ �������������� ������������ ���������� �������� ���������� ���������� ����������������,

    ��he clogged nostrils were covered with N95 mask again so that the living cries of the cells could be heard from inside along with the sighs of the breathing particles immersed in prosaic afternoons. As I walk through the concrete skyscraper jungle alleys near the Thavakkara bus stand, the gleam of fleeting sunlight occasionally tickled my quivering eyes and rested under the ochre beaks of mynahs nestled in the poverty-stricken streetlights.

    ��ut when I looked around, I saw the noisome compressors hanging in the backbones of elegant rooms vomiting carbon dioxide while december regain strength from sedative moon pills like a cancer patient after multiple chemos, Also, I knew some insinuated chapters were burning from the casualty of a cigar light from above, and l felt like my lungs were exploding and blood dripping down my chest soaking my pale blue cotton shirt into a lycopene massacre.

    ��fter an intense effort to put out the fire It was summer born of wispy silence that came to rob me away from the freedom of my glazed breath. I want to inhale lying on the platoon arms of prunes and primes of time reviving the blonde asphalt of vintage streets which was once called as pious hamlets. The rows of green carpeted paddy fields and the shrine of chandeliers in the village of Kadakkara passed me by, relieving my looped blistering thoughts from the simmering heat of the hell.

    ��ut as the mind gyrate from the countryside to the oblivion of the cities, the speckled manjaadi seeds falling from the weightless sky crawls back and forth to my embroidered handcurchief. Thunder coughed and I bleed monsoon poetry draped in a bouquet of daisies from A to Z clouds as if a stranger repainting the vinyl courtyards of the ceramic skies. These wandering people will eventually die as paper planes and boats without knowing the exact direction to hide from the raging storms of life.

    ��he rest of them will transform into an instrument of pain indicator suffocating through the sirens of medieval winter. I watched the saintly sun slowly recede while writing down the time in the pages of his evening death note for yet another sunrise. The clouds began to weep when the suffering letters doused in the sky cannot bear the weight of another cadaver night. Or isn't night a morgue where the corpse of the day waiting for the fire to wash away the sins?

    ��oisonous clouds gave birth to a baby girl named rain who does not come out of the abyss of drought when the golden egg-laying duck was mutated into a begging city. May be the firmament was grieving on the penniless rooftops of sunset with some misspelled words because the aching sea breeze can only heal the chained wounds of omniscient mountain gods.

    ������ ������ �������� ������ �������������� �������� ������ ����������,
    (�������������� ���� �������������� ���� ������ ���� ���� ��)

    ��f the name of the paradox that bloom only to know the body is love then why do the petals of flowers fall off and spring die so quickly? What is the probability of falling in love at first sight? It has no valid answer because it is a part of a person's inner feeling. Isn't it? Today i saw your face in the flashing lights six feet away from the bench where I was sitting. How do the sun rays that filter through the gaps in the imagery twigs make the butterflies to bloom like violet hyacinth from your soft skin?

    ��he two of us had never acquainted, but when my eyes met yours I was like twice shy and had a strange feeling in my heart that our names were written with the same quill on the Milky Way. The heart i carry has no other color but blood to paint our love. I think you too felt the same way as I do. Is rain really a curse for love if there are some relationships that fall apart when they come together like raindrops on the transparent window panes?

    �� have very few friends in my social circle because I know I'll have to leave them someday. It's sad though that many places where gulmohar have fallen are now a seasonal wound to the soil, aren't they? One of the advantages of having a mask is that the eyes may have already talked to each other before we start to converse to the opposite person. But the fact that masks rob people of their smiles is another aspect of it.

    ��t is rare in this world to find a person who shares the pain of others. My mother used to say that god always dwells in a compassionate heart. I like your way of talking a lot especially the dialect tone of your voice. Maybe we both are in the same page destined to meet at the right time. Who knows? I could read the sadness in your eyes, quadruple times more sadness melts inside me than you, and I still laugh out loud infront of others. Light can only obscure the shadows but not erase them while preparing to settle the pain.

    �� have a lot of people to protect before my paralyzed heart seek the viridescent kelp forest under the muffled currents of balmy mississippi. The salty taste from the tears of pain is sweetened whenever others like us see us laughing and rejoice atleast for a moment. Isn't that true? I have repeatedly witnessed the quarrelling of wrinkled leaves with that invisible power of the wind when god suddenly opens the windows of heaven to those who have no blemishes in their hearts.

    ��oney and fame aside, human beings are just bones and skin smeared with the instinct to survive every single day. I'll pray to the almighty that your mother's lump in the uterus may heal as soon as possible.The doctor said that my mother had a minor hernia and may need a surgery. Perhaps life is a thread that supports both ends of entity with a balanced force. The lost answer to the question of whether there will be a tomorrow may be also an enduring question mark.

    ��he stars may fall in love with the moon's nightingales lurking in the branches as the unfamiliar faces disappear in two separate ways during this maundy thursday. When you spoke to my mother you could at least say your name or place. Time will decide if we will ever meet again, the probability of not seeing you is 99.999%, but I would like to believe in the rest 0.001%. Let the rafts of art take us to the other side of love, beyond the depths of writing, before the world that lives in wounded hopes are lost in memories. And I love you from the very bottom of my heart..


    ����������������������: (A silent sun to dispel the alabaster gaps of meenakari bangle clouds from the tinkling anklet that have fallen on your tender turmeric toes. O' the charcoal aeon of the westerlies blowing away by picking the jingle boxes. Will the full moon rise to ablaze the cotton wick above the basil structure of this sacred courtyard? The weeping lips gloss until a twilight when the peacoc(k)onut feathers on your wet eyelashes reeve a necklace with the perfumed flowers of spanish cherry tree. A teardrop of love burning in the chandelier on your colored wall paintings with wings drenched in the incessant rain like a morpho butterfly girl. I'm still standing firmly on my roots in typhoons like an oak tree to provide the shade in the paths where you melted in search of the melodious notes of triplet conch for the mellow soul.)
    ©����������
    ���������� ������������: ������ ������(��������) ����
    �������� ������������: 7.7
    ����-����-��������

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    കൊലുസ്സണിഞ്ഞനിന്നിളം മഞ്ഞൾ പാദങ്ങളിൽ അടർന്നുവീണവെൺമേഘവളകൾ തെല്ലൊതുക്കി അകലുവാനൊരുമൗനസൂര്യൻ

    കിലുക്കാംപ്പെട്ടികൾ പെറുക്കിയലയുമൊരു കാറ്റിന്റെകരിയിലക്കാലമേ തുളസ്സിത്തറയിലൊരു തിരികൊളുത്താൻ പൂർണചന്ദ്രൻ പുനർജനിക്കുമോ?

    അധരംവിതുമ്പുമൊരു സന്ധ്യയിലിനിയാവോളം ഇല്ലഞ്ഞിപ്പൂമണം കോർത്തൊരു മാലയൊരുക്കുവാൻ തൊട്ടുരുമ്മിനിൻകൺമയിലോലപ്പീലികൾ

    പൂമ്പാറ്റപെൺകൊടിയായി തൊരാമഴയിൽ ചിറകുനനഞ്ഞനിൻ ചുവർചിത്രച്ചായങ്ങളിൽ നിലവിളക്കിലെരിയുമൊരു പ്രണയഭാഷ്പം

    സ്നിഗ്ദ്ധമാംവപുസ്സിൽ ത്രിശംഖൊലിനാദം തേടി നീയുരുകിയൊഴുകിയ വഴികളിലിപ്പൊഴുമൊരോക്കുമരത്തണലായി ഞാനുണ്ട് സഖീ
    ©

  • forestborn 9w

    ���������������� ������ ������ ������������������ ���������� ���� �������������� ������������ ☄
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    ���������� ��������������: ���� ����������������, �������� ������������������ ����
    ������������: 7.5 ��������
    ����-����-��������

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    Tell me about the cedar night sky where light barely breathe goodbyes etching a universe on the gaps of your fingers while obsolete poems die as Halley's smiling comet, and apricot letters fade away unnoticed into figments of our umpteen memories.
    ©

  • forestborn 9w

    ������������ ������������ ����
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    �������� ������������ �� ���������� ���������� ������������,

    ������ �������� ������ ������ ������ ������ ������ ������ ������ ���������������� ���� ������������. But it didn’t took long for the two of us to turn into two entirely different paintings by Van Gogh and Monet on the same canvas of love. The authentic feelings interfere with the silence when the light emanating from the colors cannot coexist forever with the shadows. Whilst a lot of unrelenting images creeps towards mind through the disorted colour palettes as the blurred paint brushes baptize in besieged memoirs.

    ���������� ���� ������������ �������� ���������� �������������� ���� ������ �������������� ������������������ ������ �������� �������������������� ����������. A spinal reflex, and you sneeze out pollen poetries when nectar dripping pages was caressed by the dusty butterflies of the book flowers. The heart paused for milliseconds while the letters wide opened like ubiquitous feathers in the hypnotic cwtch of an unremitting snowfall. Was it just a dream?

    ��he quicksilver sweat beads collided with the offering of tears in the throbbing nosepins of exuberant breeze. The late artefact of spring sprouting from the garish moonlight penetrates the branches of loneliness while the setting sun said sayanora on the boulevards of autumn. ������ ������ ������ ������������ �������� ���� ������ ������ ���������� ������������ �������� ���� �������� �������� ������ �������� �������� ������ �������������������������� �������� ���� ������������ �������������� ���������� ������������ ����������?

    ��ome transform into sigmoid tides that reckon the shore like vagrant folk tales as a reminder that eloquent silence can never come back when sacred promises are lost. Your painted face still flows like a perpetual fountain in the murals of the moon, but the color of love rippling on the edges of the waves has stolen the inherent blackness of this night. The barren and pale clouds of the sky linger in endless oblivion at the end of a desperate wait from the secret chambers of the broken heart.

    ���� ������ �������������� ���������������� ���� ������������������ ���� �������� ���������� �������� ������ ������������������ ���� ������ ����������, ������ ���������� �������������������� ������ ���� ������������������ ����������������. Let me know when you meet someone who spreads the scent of fresh soil. There are no more mirrors of the past woven in the rain threads to connect the memories and go back to the time we met. We must be reborn as love, at least in the magical foams of this scattering waterfalls bestowed by the moon.

    ���������� ��������������: ���� �������� ������(��������) ����
    ������������: 7.7 ��������

    #movingonc
    ����-����-��������

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    Angels in heaven gathered to carry the coffin of the summer sun.
    Turbulent winter roamed in the night sky to preserve the death of dawn.
    Circle of poetry melts everyday for love guarding the lustrous stars of athena.
    One last soft kiss, a lotus widow resurrected from the graveyard of tenacious mud.
    Solitary cactus waited for the dew drops to burn some hope in sahara.
    Migration as a beacon of light to cry along with saline waves.
    Eyelids tend to be solitary as long as you are million miles away
    One more night to hum for darkness from the deepest roots of unwritten poems
    Oh moon, Are you a waning metaphor a muse can't buy when shadows cruise through pain?
    ©

  • forestborn 10w

    ���������� ��
    ~~~~~~~~
    �������������� �������������� ���� �������� �������� �������������� ��������, ������������ ������ ������ �������������� ������������ �������� ������ ������������������ ������������ �������� ������������. An embodiment of pain with a wistful reminder cling on to the surface of unhurried waters to navigate through the memory guise of thalassery. Twilight is a jewish child born in the nazi night sky. The albino moon stand past the evanescent wind learning how not to get killed. A growl from the extermination camp, the grudge of the clouds with a ghost mane wore inky nights by tattooing graves on its calorescence skin.

    ��he lurking shadows from the busiest streets spills death blows and nylon miseries out of lukewarm light to feed the restless ocean. The plastic dressed wild flower bottles are con artists trading their illusionary beauty for the stranger butterflies under the gossamer sun-day. After use, the polymers are the property of the rocks. �� �������� ������������ �������������� ������ ������������ ���� ���������������� �������� ���� ���� ���������������� ������������ ���� ������ ����������. The stars stopped for a moment, renting a heartbeat to forgive when the coated aluminum foils failed to clean up the abnormalities of the satin sunset.

    ��n old melody whir from a slow moving tide clutching through the thinnest air as if a bleeding raindrop and a rusting gramophone meet the funeral of tragic grief from withering poetries. The wrecking ball made of fire sink to the bottom adopting the insignia of despair from the chime of midnight. The snuffed candles and lighthouse forgot the birthday of the sea. ������������������ ������������ �������������������� ���� ������ ���������� �������������������� �������������� ������������. The sky delve further tuning the aging gold which decided to burn away like a bonfire to warm up the december promise and to stay once more keeping the shadows at bay.

    ��ime is running out like the wild horses receding the hope and accepting the flaws of mourning november dew. The caryatid of gods hewn out by the waves is weeping when sadness lurch through the sharpening blades of coral reefs. I tasted the hymn that froze momentarily on my lips. ������������ ���� ������������ ������ ������ �������� ������ ������������ ���� ������������, �������������� ���� ������ �������� ���� ������ �������������� ���� �������� ������ �������� ��������. It's only a matter of seconds before you and me to vanish like thin sand laments, we forgot. Elegeies were sung by the decorated heterochromatic skies with a broken bansuri.

    ��he sun in my lines will soon die. A handful of salt-soaked bridal waves tracing the dreams of moon, whose head held down from the altar. We can hide like wolves in a fur coat, but our poems will never survive in the avalanching snow. Blood will seek refuge in our bones, but minus degrees celsius can mislead our beating heart. �� ���������������� �������� �������� ���� ��������. May we all experience the same pain as the ruins of light hang our splashing colors of life with these loosest threads of unwritten endings. Where have we lost our immortal soul? There are neither poetries to promise and nor words to surrender. ������ ������ ��������, ��'�� �� ���������� ������ �������������������� ���� ������ ��������.
    ����/����/��������
    ���������� ��������������: ���������� ���������������� ����(2010)��
    ������������: 7.5 ��������

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    Astray skies in strangling sin nets
    Spray painted streets sells candies of guilt
    Rosy gills, blindfolded mackerels beg for air
    Ocean is a robbed emerald of mysteries
    Sewing clouds can't recite the lullaby dawn
    Tides coax the devil eagles to pounce on hope
    Tinted glittering cuscus in acrylic cocktails
    Smoking factories pee from sewage straws
    Forgot to flush, ocean is all there to suffer
    Brutal honesty in neat four inch screens
    Buzzing flies inspecting pulse less bodies
    Stray dogs sleeps under the stinking stories
    Municipal crows carries flirting dustbins
    Red wine, mosquitoes drank the tear of the sun
    The snuffed candle is a lighthouse in regret
    Melting saffron forgot the death of the sea

    //Fireflies become ambulances of the night glistening without sirens. Charred air weeps unnoticed, a beach is a crooning nightingale sitting on a rented rock tree//
    ©forestborn

  • forestborn 11w

    �� ������������ �������������� ���� ������������������ �������� �������� �������� ������ �������������� ��������������, �������������� ������ �������� �������������� ���� ������ �������� �������������� ������ ���������� ���������� ������ ������������������ ������������������. When the sacrifice of an untouched night was refused to weave the handloom of the day bright, a lonely sunflower lady in her monthly pain sold two drops of teary petals to a blue moon who always had to taste the residue of suffocating morning light.

    ��miling skies can turn into an unexpected sculptural monument of numbness. The black clouds gathered around the Van Gogh sky to gently taste the rubicund kiss on the bruised forehead of edavapathi. Why the polythene stars fake a pinky promise to her twinkle freedom? Tonight the ornamental trees will shed lies from the opaque tongue of acacia leaves for the storms to lie on the laps of fenced graveyards.

    ��he light dries up in the melting chandeliers when a thousand human candles cry, sigh and die in the screaming audition of thunder podium. Welcome to the voyage of crescent night, one of the poems buried in the shackles of blindness shook its fingers like zombies. The roots of thoughts with wings wrapped in ashes to tighten the silence of airway as the branches spread shades as a deciduous tree. once again the stories behind the faded lipstick on betel stained dead lips are reborn in sacrificial ocean of poetry.

    ��t's diwali again with the poetic display of illuminating letters. Nothing anew, counting the flashback of old neon lights which have completed the death anniversary 52 weeks ago. Lightning printed spring on their coffins with heartbreaking lillies. As the memories of light shine through the darkened paths, the immaculate letters of the sun that keep life alive in the nearby lanterns and diyas are drenched in flames.

    ��edemption want to finally feel a human touch, the incitement of a beautiful soul who let her light to get in, no matter how much ransom is given in exchange for love. ������ ������������������ ���� ���������������� ���������� �������� ������ ������������������ ���� ������������ ������ �������������� �������� �������������� ������������������ ������ �������� ���� ���������� �������� �������������� �������������� ���� �������� �������� �������������� �������� �������� ����������. A beast can love, a lost heart can hug through solitude.


    "ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ അർഥപൂർണമായ തലങ്ങൾ തേടിയുള്ള ഈ യാത്രയിൽ മഞ്ഞു മരണങ്ങളെ കണ്ടുമുട്ടുന്ന മേഘങ്ങളെ ഓർത്ത് കരയാൻ മറ്റൊരു വസന്തകാലം. നന്മമരങ്ങൾ വീശിയടിക്കുന്ന കാറ്റിന്റെ വിയർപ്പ് പൂക്കൾക്ക് വിട. ജീവിതമേ, ആത്മാവിന്റെ ഉരുകിയ ഈണങ്ങൾ ഇനിയുമേറെ നാളുകളുടെ ശവസംസ്‌കാരത്തെ പരിമളമാക്കുമ്പോൾ ദുഃഖം നിറഞ്ഞ മണ്ണിന് സാക്ഷ്യം വഹിച്ച സിന്ദൂരത്തിന്റെ പാടും പൂമാലയും കുഴിച്ചിടാൻ കാലത്തിന്റെ ഡയറിക്കുറിപ്പുകളിൽ ഒരദ്ധ്യായമെങ്കിലും അവശേഷിപ്പിക്കുക. നിറമില്ലാത്ത ക്രയോണുകളാൽ വരച്ച പാപങ്ങൾ ചുമക്കുന്ന സൂര്യാസ്തമയത്തിന്റെ തിരശ്ശീലകൾ ഞാൻ ഇവിടെ വലിച്ചെറിഞ്ഞോട്ടെ..."
    ����-����-��������

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    "Another spring to weep for the clouds that meet the dew deaths in this journey in search of the meaningful levels of life. Farewell to the sweaty flowers of the wind that blows the goodness trees. O' life, leave at least one chapter in the diaries of time to bury the vermilion scar and garland that witnessed the mournful soil as the melted melodies of the soul scent the funerals of many more days to come. Let me throw here the curtains of the sunsets carrying the sins painted with colorless crayons"
    ©

  • forestborn 12w

    You are a soaring kite of grace seeking the happiness of soul in the modern sky. May you always flow in joy like the reverent Nile in the corridors of October pearls. Sending angels with delicious floral golden cake for that mother who carried a daughter like this for ten months. Knock knock.. Check, they reached there. Like i say, i ate all the cherries out of it. That's my bad habit (smiles wide). You will always be remembered in my journals. The sun may burn your fingers on the way back to the sea but once you lost your grip abandonment can't bring back the thawing threads. But there will be a moon to weave rare lotus fabric poems here. Always remember that. Be yourself. Be that as it may last. May your kindest heart never grow old. Happy birthday Sunaina. 143 sista. @kin_jo
    ~ ©���������� ��
    ����-����-��������

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    Pigeons
    are pegasus
    when piggy back.

    Pyramids
    are polarized
    when prisms puke.

    Piano
    hitch hike
    when palanquin peekaboo.

    Poet
    trees aching
    when poetry weeps.

    Poems
    are immortal
    when poets die.
    ©

  • forestborn 13w

    �������� �������������� ���������� ���� �������������� ����������������, ������ ������������������������ ������������ ���� ���������� �������� �������������� �������������� �������������� ������ �� ���������������� ���� �������� �������������� ���� ������ ��������-�������� �������������� ���� ������ ������������ ���������������� ��������. Bereavement surge like sentinels overcoming brutal human walls in the ruined hands when the umbilical cord is torn off from the womb like fibrous roots by a demonic typhoon. Flood usher with the ear-splitting screams of the rocks in the eleventh hour carrying the allegory of the evanescent aeon is a quietus of a precarious arcane.

    ��he sweat of african rain dripping from the masked small famine cities of the bismuth sky touching the summer human bodies that curled up like millipedes in the corners of the knotted mats of wild serengeti. A petrichor of relief emerges from the cracks in the roof tile that stretches over their head but they are busy folding the x-ray films in half on its proper position to escape the leaking room.

    ��lthough the scars of human-animal conflict are evident on the deforested man-made frontiers however vultures circling over the worm-infested carcasses of tuskers that have lost their lives due to animal poaching are a constant sight. Insects and human beings are equal here, burning in the heaps to death in the huts without electricity, meanwhile, the youth of the forest betray the emerald lungs for thirty cents of silver to escape from starvation.

    ��erhaps it was when they betrayed the okavango river of love that it began to divert and block the arteries of their heart. The black color left in the aisle is the ash of a handful of separations, but when they look in the mirror, they can see the burning feathers spreading and melting into the darkness of the day submerging the mournful twilight in the depths. And again they fail in their attempt to find shadows under the umbrella of the pious sun, the greedy approach force them to show the maps of the virgin forest on their wrinkled skin to the outsiders.

    ��hus, when a man who has become a mere scapegoat with only his clothes on is deceived by the gambles of deceit, while rich thoughts pierce the heart of the forest and sell it on the black market. The number of ribs per day is measured by mixing tobacco smoke with the blood that flows through the veins, whilst soaking the eyelids in the throes of loss while living on the bitter memories.

    ��unger on an endless journey is an internal battlefield where if you and I were the only two trapped in a mysterious island and need to survive, one among us, called as a lively carnivore, will one day have to kill and eat another. The leaves of hope embrace the wind that blows in the dense trees but when the flammable fingers of fire touch those having a jigsaw backbone and chiseled eyes full of terrors in the jungle, the seeds that germinate around them from the ashes of their cruelty after the occasional rain grant the chlorophyll the life they need.

    ��s the bloodthirsty leeches crawl on the naked bodies in search of the rusted smell of hot blood, the crushed childhood in the dry bones clasp their hands for food. There is still a small continent left to flow into the tears of joy of a group of people breathing in the sound of the wings of huge man-made dragonflies from the sky. When they taste the food of survival in the food parcels, they forget their sorrows for a moment with a smile on their cheeks. �������� ���� ������������������ ���� ������ ������������������ ������ ���� ���� ������ ���������� ���� ����������������������?

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    Sandals of helpless sunflowers covered in malodorous mud inside the mounds, cloudburst that snatch away the blinking stars are suicide bombers. In the revengeful needles of sharp rain, the wet skies are in severe atonement, As the choir of the wind waiting for the somber musical fete of ruptured clouds, the wounded heart of october burst into tears at the base of stunted bonsai trees. A layer of lightning tag the last photo adding #forget-me-not and lit the candles to bury the sicilian sun. As time went on stumbling the tainted breath of half-smoked dead cigars, the words sweating inside the burning belly filled with waves and the thunder of the abyss cried many eyes out. When the opportunistic hunters pounce on the flesh of the bodies carrying religion opening the secret corridors of the burial grounds, let the sea soaked in the red fire ball within the heart of the felled trees in western ghats smile. Why the rain inside us still falling like madness carrying zillion crowns of thorns? Maybe the penumbral heart of moon is the necromancer of the brine palace to wash away the stains of greed dissolved in our blood.
    ©

  • forestborn 15w

    ��'�� ���������� ���� �������� �� �������� ���� ������ ������ �������������������� �������� ������ ������ ������ �������� �������� ���� ������ ��������������. ���� ���������� ������ ���������� ������������ ���������� ���� �������� �������� ������������������ ���� �������������� ���������� �������������� ����������������. �������� ������, ��������! ���������� ���� ������ ����-�������������������� ���� ������ ������. ������_���� ������ ������������������������ �������� �������� ���������� ������������ ������ ���������� ���� �������� ���� �������� ���������� ������������������������ ���������� ������������������ �������������� ���������� ���������� �������������� ���� ������������ ������������������. �������� ���� ������ ���������������� '��������'? ������ ������ ������ ���� �������� ���������������� ���� ���������� �������������� ��������������? �� ���� ������ ���������� ���������� �� ���������� ������������������������ ���������� ���� �������������� ���������� ������ ������ ������. ������ �� ���������� ������ �������� ���� ������ �������� �������� ������ ������������ ���� ������ ���������� ������ �������������� ���������������� ������ ������. ������ �������� ���������������� �������� ��������..

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    Sunset is when the sky closes the door because the sun is an alcoholic poet. However every poem he wrote by vomiting gold is about moon.
    ©forestborn