Poetry

Sweet

Sweet is the first note of sunrise, A honeyed sigh on amber light, When laughter melts like caramel And childhood tastes of strawberry‑red. It lives in tea‑time biscuits, In scones split thick with clotted cream, In

Ahead

Beyond the bend of quiet lanes, Where shadows stretch and daylight wanes, We lift our eyes to what lies ahead, A promise stitched in quiet thread. Each step a measured, steady tread, Upon

Mourn

In the hush of a grey dawn, we mourn, Footsteps softened upon the dew‑kissed grass, A single bell tolls, low and solemn, While shadows linger where laughter once passed. We lay our

Nasty

Nasty In the dank back‑alley of a fog‑laden night, A nasty wind sighs through cracked panes, Turning tea leaves to bitter dregs, And the lamplight flickers like a reluctant apology. It creeps into

Rupee

In quiet pockets of a bustling bazaar, A rupee slips through fingers, cool and thin, Its copper‑kissed face recalls old empires’ stare, While notes of saffron whisper dreams within. From Mughal mint

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