it was a Sunday morning
a notepad and a pen in hand
i couldn't resist to walk down towards them
they are beautiful, bright and clean
every fibre rushes with green
those fields are a magic of nature
vibrant, colourful and sweet capture
no! those fields are not mine
nor do they belong to my ancestors
but grandpa says they never had an owner
in the month of January and February
with lemony-vanilla fragrance
those fields bloom with winter iris aromatic
white and lilac and deep blue
these winter flowers are multifarious
i often ask him
if he waters those fields
or nourishes them with likable amore
his wrinkled face did only smile
his lethargic hands did only pat
his jaw with hardly any teeth noticeable
speaks:
" you are a small sapling that those plants lefts
whose seeds i had cultivated.
those plants were sweet,gratifying and enchanting
you are soft, youthful and enthralling
darling! you are the only field i water
baby! you are my winter iris. "
people in sixtys are arduous to be understood
but i swear for those winter iris
their meaning is broad, deep and profound
yeah! i do not have my parents and he his children
but his and my relation is a bond more fragrant
than these flowers sometimes dormant
drifting in these fields
is an enchantment to my soul
i wear the transparent clothes of joy
the blood is purified with beauty
provided solace to heeding stallion
the vessels shout with ecstasy
no! no! i couldn't find anything much a bliss
more amusing than this
nature is all i love
nature is all to pen
every word i write
every thought i produce
reproduces my magnetism towards these fields
i write about chirping birds
a big group of white pigeons
they sit on my shoulders and behind winter iris
to look more beautiful than a sun rising
the birds sing, dance and flit
making rhythms with the music of my lips
in a group of those white birds
there is a bird with a peck black
its a bird that doesn't move in groups
nor dances to rhythms of my flute
it flys on a music it creates of its own
it makes sound as if talking to a power divine
i or you don't know
it seems that it is not a pigeon
but a creation of god
tied to him with smoke of love, passion and intensity
smoke that brings fragrance and rejuvenation
to an intoxicated blood flowing in veins
of a poet.. a lover..an orphan
oh! its an alter ego..
yeah! these souls are free to radiate energy
more spiritful than those of dazzling flame
flame of blue with an envelope of red
on which she made food for me and my friends
those are the days when i returned home
from a school which was distant apart
then she went to that almighty heaven above
followed by his only beloved
and grandpa brought me to this small village
that have big fields to provide me deep solace
my grandpa is not less than an angel
singing sweet songs every night
that help me sleep when i cant
because a sweet face of mother that is no more doesn't let me.
i saw her in books and so i left studies
our home echoed of her presence and so he brought me to this village
her Saree with purple frills still rests in that locker of our closet
i no more use closets to keep my clothes
but tie them in a jute bag covered by leaves green and big
but, the pleasant songs of grandpa beats a music of zeal
shouts my soul with nourishment
when i can take a sleep at night to wake up the next morning
to write about the green colour of nature i love.
churns the music of a voice girlish
these ears are foaming and fermented
this is a voice to put me in rapture
her echoes are intoxicating rather
these eyes are searching for a glance or a glimpse
she is a fairy descended from heaven above or may be a princess
no! no! i couldn't find anything much a bliss
more amusing than this
nature is all i love
nature is all i write about
writing about the beauty of rising sun
the euphoria of ocean waves
waves producing colours vibrant and intense
loving the colours i see in a rainbow after shower
and those winter iris dancing.
and while i was penning down all these
" awww! these flowers are beautiful!
i love all of them.
and yeah, mama gonna them love them too
she will look good if she gets one with her purple Saree
and i am sure, i can take them
because that man is too sweet to
object me doing that. "
she wears a dress white in colours
a dress for a fashion of 70s
or a time that no one remembers
not you, i or we at least
her long gown is blending in dirt as it only belonged to it.
oh! even the dirt on her white dress seems pure
pure with her purity..
this is the magic..of beauty..beauty of her innocence..
that only a pigeon with a black peck can see.
and her long hair are tied in a bun
this gives an impression that she intentionally did
she did this to prevent attention
silly she! a pigeon is a seeker of beauty
it knows where it emerges from
you are vibrating energy with a dazzling flame
dear! the much you try hiding the vibes you release
the more lurks brightness with sharp intensity
yeah! you can take all of them
and do gift them to your mama
do that! after all i can never do that
and yeah! i may talk to grandpa
after all, that man is so sweet to
object you doing that
it is said that good things doesn't lasts forever
and angels not always descend on earth
don't know to what extent that's right
but
while i was preparing myself to speak all that
she had already disappeared
no! no! i couldn't find anything much a bliss
more amusing than this
nature is all i love
nature is all to pen
and i pick my pen to write once again about those iris
when things went wrong
when my ears flute with words of loved ones gone
when my fingers cry for the gaps they have
and nobody to fill in
these fields came up to my rescue
in windy nights that were dark
these vibrating leaves made noise so loud
that under the sky with wide thunder
i never listened to sounds of gone loved ones
the fields have weeds so high that they cover me all over
and no gaps between these fingers or in heart with large void
" come dear grandson! its night
you my catch cold instead.
its chilly outside.
come. i will make you sleep"
this night passes by
to bring morning fresh anew
and me here writing long
about my grandpa's fields i have always adored
mentioning about green
the tress big and canopy wide
she comes up again this time
she comes up again this time
with the same beauty, attire, innocence and magnetism divine
the only thing that changed
was her hands full of baskets
she plucks those flowers with excitement
happy, smiling and joyful
she looked more beautiful than those winter iris
dear nature! how can i write about you
dear stranger! why don't you let me to?
paper and pen lost their significance
a poet a writer became a lover
days past and so did months
my daily diary was left untouched
every time she came to those fields
she collected flowers with eyes bright and big
she bid a farewell to my grandpa
my grandpa : an honest chap
explaining that those fields are not his
but he does take care of them all times
she wished him thanks and so to me
trust me! that her twinkling eyes
were only an illusion to beauty
because a sweet and pleasant voice she had
was a right expression for her beauty
" dear son! seeing you from long time
you had not been writing these nights
our mail box still has loving letters
your readers are impatient for your work
tell me, if you wanna join studies back
we will go to that town left long back
i have a friend promising and a family big and sweet
they will look after you even when i am gone..."
" no grandpa! you are not going anywhere
from me, this village and these fields
you are the only one i love
and.."
" and? "
" that girl who comes to collect flowers daily
doesn't let me to write for my readers."
" she is a sweet, poor and young lady.
why don't you like her? "
" no grandpa! i like her a lot
and that's why i cant write about things i do. "
grandpa in my life is truly an angel
or may be something more than that
if i ask from an angel for something,
he may or may not...
but grandpa finds a solution to all problems
sain or unsaid..
she comes up next day
with huge baskets once again
to collect those flowers that were never fresh
more than her smiling dimples ever wet
" thankyou for these Flowers. they are lovely."
" girl! have you ever read my writings, people say they like a few of them?"
" yeah! i have read all of them
they were rich, meaningful and deep
only a soul feeling green could write it
it had love, ecstasy and solace
that only a nature lover could feel for green forests
it feels that every grain of yours
has nature shouting with amour"
" what if i say that there exists a soul
whom i love more than green?
it is a spirit that comes to my fields to collect flowers daily."
her eyes were sparkling
and cheeks pink
my grandpa was right in sixtys
i loved my parents and they left me
and so i loved green because it can never part me
a girl could be promising to me if i love her
the way i had been doing to green
now i move in those fields
and i see that girl in those fields
i write about that girl, the beauty, the charm
that looked more magnificent with a Saree in purple frills
and iris in her bun
she reads my books and i read mine
and i don't see any missing faces in the pages of rhyme
my mail box coming up with more letters
they love reading what i write
nature is all i love
nature is all to pen
she loves, caresses and adores me in green
and so i do in green
after all she met me in those fields wide
truly, she is my girl
my girl in green.
: with love~~isha jain~~
a notepad and a pen in hand
i couldn't resist to walk down towards them
they are beautiful, bright and clean
every fibre rushes with green
those fields are a magic of nature
vibrant, colourful and sweet capture
no! those fields are not mine
nor do they belong to my ancestors
but grandpa says they never had an owner
in the month of January and February
with lemony-vanilla fragrance
those fields bloom with winter iris aromatic
white and lilac and deep blue
these winter flowers are multifarious
if he waters those fields
or nourishes them with likable amore
his wrinkled face did only smile
his lethargic hands did only pat
his jaw with hardly any teeth noticeable
speaks:
" you are a small sapling that those plants lefts
whose seeds i had cultivated.
those plants were sweet,gratifying and enchanting
you are soft, youthful and enthralling
darling! you are the only field i water
baby! you are my winter iris. "
but i swear for those winter iris
their meaning is broad, deep and profound
yeah! i do not have my parents and he his children
but his and my relation is a bond more fragrant
than these flowers sometimes dormant
drifting in these fields
is an enchantment to my soul
i wear the transparent clothes of joy
the blood is purified with beauty
provided solace to heeding stallion
the vessels shout with ecstasy
no! no! i couldn't find anything much a bliss
more amusing than this
nature is all i love
nature is all to pen
every word i write
every thought i produce
reproduces my magnetism towards these fields
a big group of white pigeons
they sit on my shoulders and behind winter iris
to look more beautiful than a sun rising
the birds sing, dance and flit
making rhythms with the music of my lips
in a group of those white birds
there is a bird with a peck black
its a bird that doesn't move in groups
nor dances to rhythms of my flute
it flys on a music it creates of its own
it makes sound as if talking to a power divine
i or you don't know
it seems that it is not a pigeon
but a creation of god
tied to him with smoke of love, passion and intensity
smoke that brings fragrance and rejuvenation
to an intoxicated blood flowing in veins
of a poet.. a lover..an orphan
oh! its an alter ego..
yeah! these souls are free to radiate energy
more spiritful than those of dazzling flame
flame of blue with an envelope of red
on which she made food for me and my friends
those are the days when i returned home
from a school which was distant apart
then she went to that almighty heaven above
followed by his only beloved
and grandpa brought me to this small village
that have big fields to provide me deep solace
my grandpa is not less than an angel
singing sweet songs every night
that help me sleep when i cant
because a sweet face of mother that is no more doesn't let me.
i saw her in books and so i left studies
our home echoed of her presence and so he brought me to this village
her Saree with purple frills still rests in that locker of our closet
i no more use closets to keep my clothes
but tie them in a jute bag covered by leaves green and big
but, the pleasant songs of grandpa beats a music of zeal
shouts my soul with nourishment
when i can take a sleep at night to wake up the next morning
to write about the green colour of nature i love.
churns the music of a voice girlish
these ears are foaming and fermented
this is a voice to put me in rapture
her echoes are intoxicating rather
these eyes are searching for a glance or a glimpse
she is a fairy descended from heaven above or may be a princess
no! no! i couldn't find anything much a bliss
more amusing than this
nature is all i love
nature is all i write about
the euphoria of ocean waves
waves producing colours vibrant and intense
loving the colours i see in a rainbow after shower
and those winter iris dancing.
and while i was penning down all these
" awww! these flowers are beautiful!
i love all of them.
and yeah, mama gonna them love them too
she will look good if she gets one with her purple Saree
and i am sure, i can take them
because that man is too sweet to
object me doing that. "
a dress for a fashion of 70s
or a time that no one remembers
not you, i or we at least
her long gown is blending in dirt as it only belonged to it.
oh! even the dirt on her white dress seems pure
pure with her purity..
this is the magic..of beauty..beauty of her innocence..
that only a pigeon with a black peck can see.
and her long hair are tied in a bun
this gives an impression that she intentionally did
she did this to prevent attention
silly she! a pigeon is a seeker of beauty
it knows where it emerges from
you are vibrating energy with a dazzling flame
dear! the much you try hiding the vibes you release
the more lurks brightness with sharp intensity
yeah! you can take all of them
and do gift them to your mama
do that! after all i can never do that
and yeah! i may talk to grandpa
after all, that man is so sweet to
object you doing that
it is said that good things doesn't lasts forever
and angels not always descend on earth
don't know to what extent that's right
but
while i was preparing myself to speak all that
she had already disappeared
no! no! i couldn't find anything much a bliss
more amusing than this
nature is all i love
nature is all to pen
and i pick my pen to write once again about those iris
when things went wrong
when my ears flute with words of loved ones gone
when my fingers cry for the gaps they have
and nobody to fill in
these fields came up to my rescue
in windy nights that were dark
these vibrating leaves made noise so loud
that under the sky with wide thunder
i never listened to sounds of gone loved ones
the fields have weeds so high that they cover me all over
and no gaps between these fingers or in heart with large void
" come dear grandson! its night
you my catch cold instead.
its chilly outside.
come. i will make you sleep"
this night passes by
to bring morning fresh anew
and me here writing long
about my grandpa's fields i have always adored
mentioning about green
the tress big and canopy wide
she comes up again this time
she comes up again this time
with the same beauty, attire, innocence and magnetism divine
the only thing that changed
was her hands full of baskets
she plucks those flowers with excitement
happy, smiling and joyful
she looked more beautiful than those winter iris
dear nature! how can i write about you
dear stranger! why don't you let me to?
paper and pen lost their significance
a poet a writer became a lover
days past and so did months
my daily diary was left untouched
every time she came to those fields
she collected flowers with eyes bright and big
she bid a farewell to my grandpa
my grandpa : an honest chap
explaining that those fields are not his
but he does take care of them all times
she wished him thanks and so to me
trust me! that her twinkling eyes
were only an illusion to beauty
because a sweet and pleasant voice she had
was a right expression for her beauty
" dear son! seeing you from long time
you had not been writing these nights
our mail box still has loving letters
your readers are impatient for your work
tell me, if you wanna join studies back
we will go to that town left long back
i have a friend promising and a family big and sweet
they will look after you even when i am gone..."
" no grandpa! you are not going anywhere
from me, this village and these fields
you are the only one i love
and.."
" and? "
" that girl who comes to collect flowers daily
doesn't let me to write for my readers."
" she is a sweet, poor and young lady.
why don't you like her? "
" no grandpa! i like her a lot
and that's why i cant write about things i do. "
grandpa in my life is truly an angel
or may be something more than that
if i ask from an angel for something,
he may or may not...
but grandpa finds a solution to all problems
sain or unsaid..
she comes up next day
with huge baskets once again
to collect those flowers that were never fresh
more than her smiling dimples ever wet
" thankyou for these Flowers. they are lovely."
" girl! have you ever read my writings, people say they like a few of them?"
" yeah! i have read all of them
they were rich, meaningful and deep
only a soul feeling green could write it
it had love, ecstasy and solace
that only a nature lover could feel for green forests
it feels that every grain of yours
has nature shouting with amour"
" what if i say that there exists a soul
whom i love more than green?
it is a spirit that comes to my fields to collect flowers daily."
her eyes were sparkling
and cheeks pink
my grandpa was right in sixtys
i loved my parents and they left me
and so i loved green because it can never part me
a girl could be promising to me if i love her
the way i had been doing to green
now i move in those fields
and i see that girl in those fields
i write about that girl, the beauty, the charm
that looked more magnificent with a Saree in purple frills
and iris in her bun
she reads my books and i read mine
and i don't see any missing faces in the pages of rhyme
my mail box coming up with more letters
they love reading what i write
nature is all i love
nature is all to pen
she loves, caresses and adores me in green
and so i do in green
after all she met me in those fields wide
truly, she is my girl
my girl in green.
: with love~~isha jain~~
