What good would wings be
If you cannot feel the wind on your face?
Wings then will be just a bag of bones
Without any feather on it.
Then I am carrying a bag of bones,
I choose to name it strength.
But honestly I don't know what it is.
Possibly it's my madness.
And they are the remains of an old palace,
Melancholy is the feather.
And what about the pain, the numbness
And forgetting the forgotten?
The pain is like water,
Till the time it is on the leaf
But does it not know how it hurts the eyes
Of the soul, the heart!
[A poem by Sandip and me.]