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)

Not yours

Forced calmness you have put over your face.
There is the rattle over there
plundering the people’s gaze.
Hey friend! You are an imagination.
Silence is here. In her little palms cared.
To the days where memories hold on.
My anger and my knives are drawn.
By the breeze of your distant country.
The rage which is now cold, stares.
Beyond the  oblivion, it stays.
Wash the faces and the embodied selves.
It will drain, but such cleansing is of no help.
You are poor. Poor out of the inhumane.
Go tell the merry makers where we store our sins.
Of the calmness forced upon them.
They will think and for you,
unknowingly they will bring.
What is not yours and I go out of words.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes)