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I could write thousand poems
I could have thousand dreams
I could wake up all night
I wished I could have the power to tread
On the soft grass where the red Palash and yellow Radhachura
fall all the night and all my sadness and gloom removed...
Alas!
I could not …..write a single line.
I wanted to die like Veronika
With sleeping pills in my hand
Which I crushed in the glass of water
On my bedside table
Paulo Coelho had his Veronika
I had you in my dreams and in my waking…
When I felt that you would wait
For me
For my mails, for my words,
For what I said about you,
About your nice scribbling
About your lovely face,
Your cute figure, your smooth white, bare, naked arms
On the Holi day, the rose of your cheeks smudged with Abir
Crimson abir
I always dreamt to see on your forehead
Your soft caressing touches all over me
My fingers running into your dark silky hair….
No, I could not take the sleeping pills
Life was more than a fragile existence
Life means living for me
Living in the grandest way like the round orb blazing all night
So I only wrote a few poems for you my dear,
Because, you had been there at the end of all roads
You had been there smiling for me
You had been there to read my trashy poems.
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