Middle of the night in Himanchal

Are written on the back of your hand,

When on a morning,

You stand barefoot on the grass,

Feeling the breeze on your cheeks,

And the rays of sun begin kissing the back of your hand,

As you stretch out,

To illuminate every inch of it.

The words are written,

In a language indecipherable by human society,

And yet you know the sun speaks to you,

In ways yet to be understood,

But your soul understands,

It feels home,

It revels in warmth.

For how can you explain,

The music you hear the next moment,

As you tiptoe through the garden,

Wondering if everything is in sync,

If the birds just chirped,

As if reciting the poem just been written,

On the back of your hand.

For how can you explain,

The smile that appears on your lips,

While feeling that warmth,

While reading this poem,

Everything emerging,

From that warmth of the sun.

So I think,

That best of the poems,

Come from the sun,

Come from the light,

As you stretch your hand,

To let a little bit of it

Fall upon you.

We always hope for better days so urchins in the inner get some peace but Do the peace really exists.