1. Pollen Piano:
Hush! Close your eyes! Can't you 'smell' something?....Yes? I know, one cannot smell crickets' chirr. For sure they can hear, feel and meditate on.
From a considerable point of time we are but accounted with the notion that music lives in every entity of the universe. Through birds' chirping, wind's howling, murmur of the river, music has been eternalized. Wait! What about the flowers? They don't sing at all; they only swing their heads with the orchestra of others. So delicate they are that wind cannot play them as it blows the bow on leaves and twigs. Is it where the convention of the purest knowledge flinch a bit? No, those who can smell the musical aroma have gone beyond.
Clicked and edited by Sneha.
Each blossom has its individual taste of melody. Some pipes the sweetest flute, some echoes with their soprano. Many do justice with the depth of cello. I smell the symphony amidst of the eden of daffodils. I smell, every song nature renders; the sprinkling rain, the streaming tide, the growling clouds, the kissing wind...Yes! I take fragrance of beings in the lonesome nights.
And when the curtain falls the pollen piano immortalizes the truth of heart.
2. Flower Fountain:
A mesmerizing fruition that one can attain if they vouch the enigmatic molds under nature's misty veil, all the designs on her gown are nothing but the mimics of each, causing the divine symmetry.
There we see the cerulean of sky larking in the river's eyes, The waves emerging from the ocean's heart, are embodiments of ornated mountain tops. The frozen dewdrops on the grass are like tears of delicate being. The never stopping clouds convey the notion of efficient lives.
We hear a bird's song in the lullaby of a harp. We witness, fountain-pebbles are blooming with colours on the branches of greens and browns, creating a fountain of flowers.
All the repeating seasons, all the happenings and mishappenings, all the disorders and manifestation... render a magical dependence as the thirsty winter waits for spring's fountain of love and paints the pink graces of the frame, reminding the heart with a fountain of unspoken words and the universe nurturing a womb of wonderful weird worlds.
3. Cuddling Glory:
Glide on the waves, breathe the breeze, eat the candy clouds with a heart that has no broken vows! Build sandcastles as if you are framing your new self, with the most cabalistic shells. Love, adore, reflect. Cuddle the new child...as the deep spreads arms to kiss its little shore.
And the line where the sky meets the sea
It calls me,
And no one knows
How far it goes
If the wind in my sail on the sea stays behind me...
One day I'll know
How far I'll go...
4. Black Water:
A lonely voyage to find the solitary soul who hides the missing piece of my puzzle. But see! on a broken vessel I, the clown...haha! crossing the black depth of the hearts with melancholic breathe. Black! as black as MY blood....my blood...my mind! How audacious I'm! What I am thinking!!? What?? The ocean with cursed tides would spare me!? Hahaha! Don't know if the silver from the ether would bestow some hope...don't know! If all cry out to tell me with the most optimistic utterance to...to...find me! To know that the piece is within me! Don't know...Am I, I'm!?
5. Metamorphosis:
All black, she thought to be most favourable; untouched, unfathomed as no ethereal substance can encroach to heal.
The leaves and streets are never tired of performing, keenly obeying their choreographer. The constant pitter-patter sound on her pitch-black umbrella seems like a slumberous lullaby, Iris ponders. The sonorous rhythm is stretching her sinuous arms to embrace her as she is standing alone, with her eyelids closed on the empty lane holding the black shield above her head, with red hues dripping from it. Cold thrills are whispering from behind; influencing an unearthly ambience that can shiver every mortal. However, it is of no bother to Iris, as she has to bathe into the hellish torments every day since when all blacks became her favourite. She smiles, starts stepping forward towards home, a peaceful fearlessness soaring within..."I believe no more blacks...I think no longer darks..."
Clicked by Sneha
Ara, with her mind on the open pages of Ovid, laying on the couch dealing with the cosmic chaos the poet has painted! Suddenly, her eyes fixed towards the window where a rainbow umbrella is resting with its glowing spectrum! She calls, "Iriii, Iri! You've brought the wrong umbrella...it is not your black one!" Iris arrives rubbing her head with a towel, "What is it, Ara! I was...", she frowned to see the blaze coming out of the rainbowed umbrella. Her eyes are glinting with tears. "It's not the wrong one dear, now it has become worthy like my name!." She giggles.
The fullest rainbow chuckles from the blue.
6. Recreation:
It's all about your extramental world, you're furnishing with the unstoppable possibilities. A bird can be refolded into a boat, a bunny, a kimono, or any other extravagant vision. At times it can be ache to return in it's original fold. Then we find our original aestheticism; a fresh, unfurling, self unfolding origami.
7. Phoenix out of Sphinx:
Fire, the resonating warmth between empty echoes, beholding the flowery flames breathing as the entity of life, within death. We merrily use that essence to create the pyre of our life-giver. Our mother nature takes rebirth from the ashes we cause, the curse we chant; from the ocean's heart, from the sylvan beam, from the owes of rain...she takes rebirth; burnt and healed time and again!
Immersing the mythical notion with natural convocations, I want to learn how to flutter igneous wings and fly. I don't know whether there would be a "Second Coming" to conquer, emerging from Styx or not...but my eyes have witnessed you, becoming Phoenix, out of Sphinx.
Hail to the divine soul of nature. Forgive...
