Monsoon, come she will.

Her journey has been long, yet she isn't tired. The old and the young await her arrival with bated breath. The young ones look upon her coming as the jail break they needed from the shackles of the dreary summer, already a distant memory; the old feel a return to innocence and reminisce the days of their youth. In the hustling-bustling city where life never seems to stops there is one moment which holds everybody grounded and breathless. The air, heavy and still, is ripe with the scent of her arrival, now imminent. The usually noisy avian residents of the telephone wires are quiet, the way school children become when faced with the towering persona of their principal. As though sullied by the rush of her chariot, the clouds are dark, rendering Apollo into a mortal, helpless spectator. She sheds her first tear drop, the first of countless. And all of creation rejoices.

कबीर का एक दोहा ..

रंगी को नारंगी कहे
बने दूध को खोया
चलती को गाडी कहे
देख कबीरा रोया

याद

कहता है कवि
जीवन है बहती नदी

न जाने कब वक़्त ने बांध बांधा
हुआ है आलम आज कुछ ऐसा

लेती है रूप वर्तमान की आशाये
अब केवल अतीत के प्रतिबिम्ब मे

The Speaking Tree

O Poet, the realm of words is yours!
So eloquently you express,
the beauty and essence of my being.
Thy glorious words stir many,
yet pride I show none.
Never do I hide,
although you seek to possess.
Freely I give,
never a citation I ask.
O Man, won't you learn from me?

Relatively speaking ..

Said Schwarzschild, as he strapped on a rocket,
heading towards a black hole, "It'll never get me!".
Snickered Eddington, till he couldn't see him any more.
And then he snickered some more.