Trees that don’t bear fruits still give oxygen.
Songs that don’t make sense still carry music.
Love that does not get found is still not lost.
Hope is an aching whisper for water in drought.
Summer that brought gloom;
grief, for someone that cannot process it anymore.
Pondering on the dead and the wicked, laughing along with those that make no sound.
If I could turn back time and by making the world go round?
I forget the face; I forget the lessons; I forget the pain; I forget the passion.
I remember only the unmet future and how to maneuver it
By selling my dreams for a pot of gold; wishes for applause.
My truth for my experiment; my reality for my gimmick.
How I wish they would bring the curtain down!
So, I can be in my silence, at peace with my violence.
And finally feel the grief somehow.
For the empath have the curse of love and pain.
And I have been blessed by both equally,
It is my albatross and comfort.
The cult of personality.
Time to go on the stage again, time to play the gimmick again.
These thoughts, these words, lost, like tears in rain.
Himanshu Chakravarty Sharma / मंच 