The mountains are high and my feet are bloated;
Pinned hopes are taken off by the wind going wild,
Shaking my head as desolated poetries of life are unfolded;
The sky pours down in grief watching the lonely child.
Clothed in the weary skin, my soul naked in the twilight;
The darkness follows and the shadow leaves behind;
Oh! How the weight of the cruel world pulls down the kite,
That once flew high and bright like the lonely child.
Those with heart of a stone threw me away so far,
Where the petals have dried and the thorns are lined;
The night cries as the warm tear falls on my invisible scar,
And the moon wonders if God is the friend of the lonely child.
– Kritika Vashist
(I am trying to catch up with the blog, but it is now getting almost impossible. I am taking a short break, since I have a lot to sort out and a lot to do in coming days, and I hope that everything goes well. I will be back soon. Miss me a bit, okay?