Who gave letters its sound? Who gave unmeaningful letters a purpose? In vain I create a prosaic poetry only to realize that everyone is merely every others’ dream.

Fickle are the fingers of Fate that pour capricious tunes down the ears of her ardent listeners. Just when she plays a melody soothing to the soul, there is a discord that shatters the realm of peace. It leaves one to wonder if the music is a guile leading one from a mirage of serenity into a deep trench of ugliness. Her music brings many a soul together and yet she is complacent in striking the wrong note when everything 

seems perfect and in harmony.

But I do not want to judge her wrong.  Her music undoubtedly has also the magical power to heal all those gashes left by her. In no time, the Hurt move into an easeful state, forgetting the loss, the laughter, the love, the pain and the regrets…..And now, a flower has been plucked untimely and the fingers that plucked it continue to play those deceptively uncanny tunes in a vain attempt to assuage the pained soul. How I wish that my grasp had been a little more firm, a little longer! Helpless stood we watching her slip into an abyss unfathomable..

I realize with a pain unmatched that dreams and memories are the only havens where one can breathe life back into those who have innocently fallen a prey to the vile games of Fate.  I do not wish to forget the fragrance the little bloom spread during her short visit to our garden. And so I write in vain believing against all odds that I could bring her back to this cruel world for as long as words exist. I thrive, therefore, to try and make her immortal by giving a form to my thoughts. For the first time I fear failure.