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

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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)

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The Wind.

And who takes my fragrance to the solitary loon?
Who sits in the Sun warming his heart.
To see the beauty of the solitary lass.
The one to steal my sweetness desired.
The Wind, you are the nature’s pryer.

-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes)

The Extension (After the Angelectomy)

But I tell the infinite to find me.
Sleeping in the jungles of absurdity.
This nature keeps me still.

As for her, this is easy.
Which it will never speak.

It knows that I am weak.
All in where none of this finiteness.
Anything it will mean.

The white light will sit on me.
I will breathe through you I promise.
Accept me while there still be
The Infinite, The Time.

You’re too kind. I say to you again.
Too kind.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes)

Unresolved

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To you, I am a puzzle.
A mathematical problem
that takes too much paper
and ink to be solved.
Because, to you, it looks so.
So you find me better, unsolved.
It is easy to open books
of subjects with no problems to solve.
So I stay unsolved. I stay unresolved.
But when again the mathematics of me, as you see.
Finds you in settlement with the easy things.
Unlike me. So you see.
Again I am a complex problem.
For you, needing too much paper
and ink to be solved.
You move on.
I stay unsolved. I stay unresolved.
Little you know. I am literature.
Just a good read and all is solved.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes)

Becoming Dice

Silently you stepped over
to purchase the other side
of the line that had us separated
from all we would rather be.

The game had you roll like a dice.
Unaware of the numbers we were to face.
And the chances slipped from spaces
between our fingers where we held the same.
Belonging to us.
Not you. Not me. It was  us.

The key to the lock we have,
now rests on the ocean bed.
“Two is the number now, one is not.”
The Dice tells.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes)