Nothing of Me

There is nothing of my own,
none of my poems,
or an unsung song.

There is nothing more whole,
nothing more infinite
than my ever devoted soul.

Musing floating in the space,
scattered words trying to trace,
in the little universe inside me,
the one that believes,
despite what crafted world says,
nothing, but love reveals;
whatever I am,
whatever I was.

There is nothing this nature hasn’t shown;
There is nothing of me I haven’t known.

From the winds,
speaking for my feisty sail,
an unheard, unknown tale.

From the moonlight,
veiling my unfrequented face,
leaving an imperceptible trace.

From the infinity of sky,
embracing my love’s agelessness,
raining my love’s melancholiness.

Nothing but,
the poems I write,
nothing of which is mine;
a rumination of that mystical love,
residing in me.

Day after day,
I realize,
nothing of me is possible to think,
nothing of me is possible to ink.

In gaze and stillness,
I realize,
nothing of me was ever adulterated,
it was nothing,
but a liberation unstated.

There is nothing of me I haven’t known.
The poems I write
The songs I sing
In the wind that blows
When the night falls.
Everything,
from the tiny universe within.

However,
This world knows nothing of me;
The warmth of my love,
the bitterness of my love.

This world knows nothing of me;
Of what I am,
of what I could be.

– Kritika Vashist

(Lately, I have been feeling as if few abstruse thoughts and philosophies of life, which, I think and write are not what I decided to, but a force within takes my hands and places them on the keyboard and makes them to draw the words I wanted to keep to myself somewhere beneath the soul, where nothing of me and no one can reach.)