Ballad
Nimai's Temple
In a small village nestled among the lush green fields of Bengal, lived a young boy named Nimai. His world was simple, confined to the narrow paths winding through the paddy fields, the dense bamboo groves, and the occasional banyan tree where the village elders gathered to discuss everything from the upcoming harvest to tales of the supernatural.
By Dabasish Pal2 years ago in Poets
Dear uncle
Dear Uncle, As the years have passed and I’ve now reached the age of 34, the memories of my childhood with you remain vivid in my heart. I deeply miss those wonderful days spent by your side, where I would eagerly wait my turn to read the newspaper you brought home every day. Despite my young age, I took great pleasure in flipping through its pages, then watching you solve the crossword puzzles at the back. I was always in awe of your intelligence and vast knowledge. I long for those summer days when we would take your fragrant car, whose scent and the feel of the velvet seats still linger in my memory. I felt like a princess sitting in the front seat next to you, and our trips would always end with a refreshing ice cream from the small grocery store at the edge of the village. I admired your calm demeanor, your patience, and the respect you showed to me and others. I rarely saw you angry, and to me, you were the epitome of a gentleman, someone I always looked up to. I wish you a wonderful life wherever you are. With warm regards, Your Niece
By Warm vanilla 2 years ago in Poets
Scars to your beauty
What magnitude of pain can hurt? What is the measuring capacity of the human heart to bear, to accumulate in its precipice before it finally seeks redemption, before it concludes to itself no more? How ironic and disbarring it is to moan about the loss of someone after their demise after they bury themselves on the deathbed or even more unbearing when they bury themselves in their essence. If they bury themselves in their breaths, they break their souls, they pierce their hearts and shed every ounce of their aching identity that constitutes their trace.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Poets
