From the dewed leaves of the morning,
Whose wet layer did her fragile hands meet.
To machined lands of dry spell,
Whose fate did the farmer bear.
The smoke from chimneys in cold winters,
Whose warmth did the family share.
To the petrichor of the wet blazing suns
Whose feel did those parchments lack.
Welcoming the new born in cold arms,
As he awaits, mute; to his manufactured identity and belief.
To parting ways with the dead in flames,
In whose remembrance the living gather.
The decreasing unhappiness of a plastic world,
The diversity of whose engagements multiplies.
To the increasing animosity between humans,
Whose diagnosis fails to be prescribed.
Of the wife who weeps of cheat,
Remains her, the residue of their marriage.
To the uncle who trespassed his pants and scarred his past,
Blesses him on his wedding, unapologetic, for the future.
The world is a blanket of intricate threads
Of different colours and sizes
Dyed with emotions in skilful art,
Woven in the intimacy of silences.
