Summers, never had I thought you will
make preciousness perch
onto my very being.
In life, I praised the infinite.
As for me,
I understood he forges all.
Yet preciousness perched
onto my heart’s wall.
Blessing me she pours
unto voids I hold.

-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

The Arithmetic of the Darker hue of the Orange.

Yet again, it was the unpermitted.
Surely I have a thing for it.
No, I do not have to suppose anymore.
And in my confidence,
We know what we need to know.
(I thought I did, Foolishness smiles at me.)

You understand the arithmetic of the cerulean colour.
Remember? How once, I told you about a certain kind of Diagram?
Now I tell you how,
It radiates the ‘Darker Hue Of The Orange’.
Just as this evening sky,
Blushing the orange of the Sun.

And how fierce you are, Orange.
But admiring this, the cerulean wears it all.
(Can he now?)

Listen Grace, closely listen to this colour.
I find this serene. I wait for your meaning.
All the details you explore.
And the storms you bring in my cage.
Yet, the peace it brings.
Never had I thought,
that the storms bring along peace.
Reminds me,
Of how you once
you told me about being illogical.
(I am being one with it now.)
I recall, the same day I met insecurity…
… (This Poem is Unfinished and will remain to be.)




After all, the leaves have now fallen.
holding the thoughts that leave the trees.
Look how the streets have now been covered.
Laying flat as the pages you often see on my desk.
And I know not, whether to look for spaces in between them
Or to just gently press them beneath my feet.
If the wind plays her game hiding her cards.
Am I to run and chase after her and be played
like a record playing to please the listener’s heart?
Or am I to ignore every thing
and stomp ┬ámy feet and tell the earth ‘I exist’.?
Or to take the form of the wind?
Take the leaves with me.
Take them higher than all the trees.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes)

A Message Through The Sun, The Earth, The Sky.


Is this the sunset when the sea is painted in glittering gold?
Or the foreign lands?
Of whom I learn more, each day.
Like the memory I never lived.
Is that how the clouds make the earth taste?
Of which is hers to begin with.
Of which she is unknown.
Yet, it is all her own.
How she becomes more of what she was before.
O! The Sun!
O! The Earth!
O! The Sky!
How might I, through you convey?
In genuineness, what is hidden in the moon’s light.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes)