ThoughtsAndEchoes

. Strong on the surface The mud pot may easily break. The clay was exposed to fire to build. It wont feel the warmth- flawed in the make. It may be kept for display, Its attractive, appealing smile. Or it may even be a storage Water, maybe fire, or even brine. It tried to fit in all of it, while showcasing the finest smile. The fire heated up too much The water filled in its pores Harder than ever to let air in, Fuelling fire, while it gets harder to breathe. But the brine caused it to crack open, The water held back by a smile, While it burned and the brine acted slow, The killer left no sign. The cracks grew wider, The brine overflowed, The fire burned, And the water corrode. Is it still the vessel To blame for what it holds Which cracks it open, Or is it the fault of things it doesnt let go?                                                        ...

  It is not just the absence of noise or the presence of absolute tranquillity and serenity in our surroundings. No. Silence is the warmth felt in those moments when we feel a feeling, a moment which does not make itself heard, but felt. Which is felt by all our senses while relaxing our ears. It does not mean that there is no sound heard; It is. But the same sound which, normally, is heard; Silence means feeling that sound through the different perspectives of our different senses; which together formulate our experiences as a human.  Silence is rest of the mind which never sleeps. It is that bare moment when no thoughts come and go, only does breaths. It is that semiternal feeling of mental relaxation when you truly feel your surroundings; you, without solely relying on a particular physical sense                                                   ...

 Past all the sadness  Rivers of melancholy and oceans of loneliness  I'd still find a glimpse of you.  Therefore, it is true to say-  Here on land, Past all the suffering there is  Vastness of love is only found  In the name that hides in my poetry.                                                                     ~ Rugvedi Nakti

 In Mumbai, along the Eastern Express Highway line, over 700  pink trumpet trees ( Popularly known as Mumbai cherry blossom) are set to be cut by the  MMRDA . These Trees are not just important for their aesthetics, but to represent one of the city’s rare seasonal bursts of natural beauty in an otherwise concrete landscape. It is high time that we, as citizens, note that the Government taking steps towards development are not sustainable and are only causing more and more harm to us. Is it only for the love of power and money? Does the lives us the citizens not matter anymore?  Here's a poem-  The world remains a void still Where love secretly thrives Amongst the Haters, the blindfold fools, the Corrupt- It still survives. The ravens they run away From their homes to seek shelter The trees they embrace them As the seasons grow colder. They musn't croak nor must they fly For the traps they set may cost them lives. When the snow makes them blue The tree sheds its ...

 I wish to bury myself In the endlessness of your soul. I wish to drown in your breaths,  In the silences that we hold. If I were to bleed my love for you, Darling Im afraid I'd bleed myself out Until I'm one with the air you breath- Till the air you feel is cold.                                           ~Rugvedi N.

 You paint the field yellow for me. You spray fragrance on the flowers. You pluck one from the garden and keep it in the vase. You lay grass mat in your yard. You tell me that's your field. "I'm impressed," but did you do all that to keep me? We walk on the floor, barefoot. We talk about the beautiful moon. But, I'm afraid. Did you make that up too? I love flowers, and certainly to walk on grass. But I love the beautiful things that are real. I would've loved your grey field, holding your sorrow. I would've walked on cobblestones while the music plays low. I would hold you when you most need me to. No need to cover things up for me, when I'm all here for you. Now, you grow flowers in your field, Sometimes walk on grass I grew. You walk with those marks 'Cuz the wounds are healed. They don't bleed anymore.                                                   ...