Ode of Leaves

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Crisp, curled in cocoon
of Winters O! Scattered falls,
the dry allures.
Thee roll carpeted yellow brown.
Silenced Streets with
the Song of thy sounds.
In dry she turned now.
Her nature wherein thee stay wrapped
every then, will be of her’s.
New forms reside.
The nuances belong to,the now dry.
Dropped from thy highs.
Flat, some curled, some untouched
and crushed, thee lie.
Thee descend to thy begin.
In time, spring again in thy highs.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

Restless Soul

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Spirits restless rising
Shivering core entwined
Aspirations in midnight open-eyed
Dreams silent behind eyes.
Disquitening butterflies
Prepare the soldier
Far into the miles
And for the transient body
Thoughts in mind.
Elements in spirited found
Courage plants down Victors
Not bow to the sinking downs.
Contain them fluent be waters
Becomes Wells, Oceans,
Or Rusty Kettle holes
Centred in core heartful
Still remains the goal.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

Constant

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Time, it compels a lot of people and the relations to grow or to decay into things that forget the origins from where they emerged.

I have faced them and I am sure that you have too.

But knowing you, I believe if I hold onto my end the way I am supposed to.

Then you are such a person who will always be my constant.

-Manvendra Vidyarthi.

Listen, Listen Soul Listen.

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Learn, Learn soul learn
to lay upon fallen plays
of destitution and of course the celebration.
To turn weeping cheek close
and the dishonest happy away.
As frail as a twig, as mighty as a burning wick.
The Remnant, the same.
Come, Come Soul Come.
Pierce through these windows
Off some distance above the grounds.
You may find, find some things
Stories untold, some stolen paste lore.
Or probably nothing at all.
Some, they carry empty halls.
– Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

“He Killed Her”

With his sly hands he wished to kill her now.
Snatch away every single sign of breath she could linger upon
and surface the coughs of death over her.

She made him weak with no regrets.
Kept drowning him deeper and deeper to ensure
he forgets the soothing taste of his loving wife on his helpless tongue.

But it was enough now. Ashamed of himself, he swore
he would never touch a glass, a bottle, anything filled with this lustful liquor.
He dropped her – the bottle smashed in front of his feet,
the liquor slowly flowing like blood
between the shattered sharp-edged pieces of the bottle.

-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)