The Wings of Age

Crushed dirty clean or sparkling shrunk wrinkled or spread whatever it be makes no difference. After all it ever remains My mother’s Hem how I long to hide in them. (Mother’s Hem) night comes from moving wheel of time later in course shines the Golden dawn sublime world sees whirlwind in types different even mind and thoughts have its variant supplemental are destruction and creation but the tune of creation is ever liked with admiration this is whirlwind. (This is whirlwind) when blossoms fall out of season also leaves become dry without reason and food drops down from the dish to whom Cuckoo will tell her wish? (cuckoo’s coos) hands are not Yellow with turmeric feet not coloured by hena pearls are not taken out of shell only chemical colours are in arena adulterated is when Mercury itself how will the mirror tell the truth? (How will the mirror tell the truth) pain has pierced the heart burning inside are many a flame several problems are raising head the blood is boiling again (where it is?) when disappointment kills devotion becomes a bondage in restrain the agitated man with his valour emerges like a mountain. (New creations) as rain drizzles and tickles it whispers open and stretch the sari’s Hem to welcome the one who is so near and dear. (Welcome) language of anguish watered in tears articulates the secrets of mind distressed; for how long can be concealed resounding of the wails of the inner-self? (Inner wail) history is on wait everyday with its book with pages blank those deserving are lagging behind running are dwarfs for recording their names. (History) traversing all new paths each day we assume the role of a new sun then illuminated be the entire world we must do some noble works. (Resolution).