Worlds on a Window Sill | Neha Bisht

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

The window sill has been my silent companion for long.

So much happened on the window sill.

Playing, dreaming, watching,

I grew up sitting on window sills.

Giggles of Innocence,

Racing hearts,

There was always a feeling bubbling,

On a quaint window sill.

I remember the first bloom of spring and the bird that always came by.

I remember the toy seller in his cycle in my Grandma's town,

He always passed by my window sill, singing a funny song.

I remember the glow of distant lights on a tall spire, from my hostel window,

They always twinkled and took me home, like a lullaby, on angel wings.

I remember my youthful heart, skipping a beat on the window sill.

Ah! I remember all the views and sounds that called me to the window,

And made my mind roam.

I remember the excitement that always bubbled,

On the window sills of my childhood.

Those sweet whispers of my heart, looking o'er the window sills.

Today my window sill is quiet,

As I see the world passing by.

The giggles are silent,

The heartbeat is silent too.

Memories flood like monsoon clouds,

Threatening to burst.

It's just me and the quiet window sill.

We both know too much to speak.

लाचार | Gaurav Pandey

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

एक हाथ वाले बूढ़े को देखा

सजे सवरें बाजारों के बीच

एक अच्छा उदाहरण था वो

खाली बैठे बेकारों के बीच

हाथ एक ही था उसका

मगर हौसले उसके दुगने थे

एक मिसाल पेश करते देखा

मैंने मानसिक लाचारों के बीच

चूड़ी – बिंदी – टिकुली

वो बदन पे दुकान लगाए था

सजने के सारे सामान

फटे कुर्ते पे लटकाया था

एक सांस में सारे

चीजो के दाम बता देता था

वो एक हाथ वाला बूढ़ा

दो वक्त की रोटी कमा लेता था

पेट भरने भर का कमा लेता था

वो व्यापारी इशारों के बीच

पूरे दिन की कमाई गिन रहा था

बन्द दुकानों के दीवारों के बीच

लिए कटोरे बैठे होते थे

कुछ मेहनत की गरीबी से जो

कुछ सिक्के कटोरे में

डाल देता था , दिल की अमीरी से वो

चेहरे पर थी झुर्रियां

लेकिन बड़ा प्यारा था वो

बस एक बात पे खीझता था

कि एक बेसहारा था वो

थी चेहरे पर एक मुस्कान प्यारी

वो दुख के मुंह पर तमाचा था

इतनी मुश्किलों में भी खुश रहने का

शायद उसके पास कोई सांचा था

पहचान था, अभिमान था वो,

एक तमाचा था वो

भगवान को कोसने वाले

अनगिनत शर्मसारों के बीच

एक हाथ वाले बूढ़े को देखा

सजे सवरें बाजारों के बीच

एक अच्छा उदाहरण था वो

खाली बैठे बेकारों के बीच

Unyielding Journey | Kieran Anil Rogers

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Because I could not stop for death,

I weep in the bellows of his cape,

Longing for a moment

To join with my beloved Sissle

Who since passing,

Leaves a hole of emptiness

So great that could fill

The barren plains of the Grand

Canyon ten times over.

Seasons pass,

The aching never really ceases,

It grows uncontrollably into a bottomless pit

That engulfs all fragments of existence,

Leaving just a shell with no real substance.

I beg for a moment of release

But time is a cruel reminder

Of a pack I made

All those years ago

It smiles seeing my displeasure

Taunts me with brittle bones

And greyness in my beard

But its grip never relents

Yet, its grip refuses to relent, unyielding, unyielding.

Still, I stand resolute in my pursuit,

To find solace within the depths of my grief.

For though time may mock me with its passing,

I will not surrender to its callous hold.

I shall traverse this path of longing and loss,

With unwavering determination in my stride.

I seek redemption, healing, and peace,

Amidst the shadows of my sorrowful plight.

For even as the seasons come and go,

And the ache persists, unyielding,

I shall gather strength from the depths of my soul,

And forge a path towards a brighter horizon.

With each passing day, I shall reclaim my essence,

Embracing the memories, both joyous and painful,

For they are the threads that weave the tapestry,

Of a life well-lived, despite the trials faced.

So, I stand here, beneath death's solemn gaze,

With tears in my eyes, and resilience in my heart,

For in the face of life's ceaseless trials,

I choose to defy time's relentless grasp.

And though its grip may never truly relent,

I find solace in the courage to endure,

To honour my beloved Sissle's memory,

And to forge ahead, ever onward.

For within the depths of my spirit,

I hold the power to transcend,

To find meaning amidst the ache,

And create a life renewed, resilient, and free.

So, I shall press on, with unwavering resolve,

With every step, defying the clutches of time,

For even in the darkest moments,

I am a testament to the human spirit's shine.

And as the echoes of my plea fade into the air,

I embrace the unknown, with hope and despair,

For in this journey through life's intricate weave,

I am determined to find the solace I crave.

Thus, I walk this path, undeterred by its length,

With a heart full of longing, and a soul unyielding,

Guided by love, and driven by purpose,

To reclaim the light that death seeks to steal.

For though its grip refuses to relent,

I will persevere, with every ounce of my being,

In the pursuit of peace, love, and serenity,

Till the final breath, my spirit shall keep believing.

ठहरो कुछ देर | Gaurav Bhatnagar

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

थम गयी है ख़त्म ना होने वाली दौड़

सोचा ना था कि ऐसा भी आ सकता है एक मोड़

सर्व शक्तिमान को एक सूक्ष्म ने दिया है तोड़

क्या प्रकृति सिखा रही है अब रहना है दिलों को जोड़?

शांत है गगन और चुप है धरा...

शांत है गगन और चुप है धरा...

नज़रें घूमाईं तो देखा मुन्नी के चित्रों में है जादू भरा...

ना जाने ये सब कब रचा, मैं तो सदा ही रहा थका थका

सुना आज देर तक चिड़ियों का संगीत...कह रहीं हैं...

मुस्कुराओ, ये वक्त भी जाएगा बीत

साँसों को भी अपनी आज छुआ,

साँसों को भी अपनी आज छुआ,

पता चला इनकी गहराइयों में ही तो है जीवन दर्शन छुपा

कहाँ कहाँ हो आया मैं ढूँढते तुम्हें, अब लगता है मुझ जैसा कोई मूर्ख ना हुआ

माँगता रहा तुमसे रोज़...मंदिर और गिरजाओं में रहा था तुम्हें खोज

अलमारी में सदा से रखी वो सबसे छोटी गीता की किताब

यूँ ही आज उठा ली और मिल गया जीवन का सार

सच है यूँ ही तो नहीं उठाया है आपने सृष्टि का भार

थम गयी है ख़त्म ना होने वाली दौड़, शायद ज़रूरी ही था ये मोड़

गहरी काली है यह रात, गहरी काली है यह रात,

पर नयी सुबह से पहले सिखा रही है एक ज़रूरी बात

ख़त्म हो नफ़रत, सिर्फ़ प्यार बढ़े,

ख़त्म हो नफ़रत, सिर्फ़ प्यार बढ़े

प्रकृति माँ है, मत दो उसे ज़ख़्म गहरे

ठहरो कुछ देर, जानो तुम कौन हो

रोटी का यंत्र नहीं, तुम रचेयता का पुरस्कार हो

ठहरो कुछ देर, जानो तुम कौन हो

तुम ही हो ब्रह्म और तुम ही अवतार हो...

जीवन आनंद का तुम ही समागम हो

ठहरो कुछ देर, जानो तुम कौन हो

குழாய் மண் | Nandha Lakshman

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

கோடிக்கணக்கான இணைபிரியாத தோழமைகளோடு தொன்று தொட்டு வாழ்ந்து வந்தேன்!

அரசல்புரசலாக தோழமைகள் அதிர்ந்தார்கள்!

சற்று நிலைகுலைந்தார்கள்!

என்ன ஆனதோ?

ஏது ஆனதோ?

என்று விலாசம் தேடி விசாரிப்பதற்குள் என் தோழமைகளின் தொடர்புகளை துண்டித்து, உணர்வுகளை நசுக்கி, ஏதோ ஒரு சுழலும் குழாய் ஒன்றின் வழியாக உறிஞ்சி வெளியில் வீசப்பட்டேன்!

இத்தனை காலம் இணைபிரியாமல் ஒன்றோடு ஒன்று இணைந்தே இருந்த தோழமைகள் எல்லோரும் சிதறி சிதைந்தார்கள்!

நானும் அந்த எந்திரத்தின் அருகில் தான் வந்து விழுந்தேன்!

"மண்ணு மசுரு மாரி இருக்கு"

"நூறு அடி போட இன்னும் மூணு நாளாகும்"

என்று மனிதர்கள் மொழியில் ஏதோ கேட்டது!

"பரவாயில்லை ஏதோ ஆபத்திலிருந்து மனிதர்கள் நம்மை காப்பாற்றிக் கொண்டிருக்கிறார்கள்"

என்று நிம்மதியடைந்தேன்!

Sordid Liquids and Lumpy Solids | George Thundiparambil

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Weaving yourself in the warp and weft of life

listening to the tick of your heart

that jumps, lies low or races

with the temperature of consciousness

which plucks, picks and pulls with enzymes

that teach you elementary instincts.

It's a pity that what you love

always escapes the fever of passion

or that dies by the sword of reason,

or how'd I miss her lips

by the breadth of a strand

while the will remained a passive observer.

It should in reality be a pilgrimage

each minute as you fill life to the brink

with sordid liquids and lumpy solids

that send you down like an anchor in deep sea

fixing you like a massive log

that cannot float nor drown.

Nucleus | Varsha Alimchandani

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

My parent's deep wrinkles look at me

And pretend to be forgotten

They wish their kid to be reborn

With no memory of early life

They wish to elope from being who they are

But how do I not remember those set of eyes?

Do I disassociate and numb out or

Do I become like them to

make it even

And solve the puzzle of precisely which darkness paralyzed them

Is it easy to defecate behind a wall with a lock

come out and cook another meal?

Should I let the kids wonder where

do all the stories come from?

Every single adult keeps

alerting their kids about whom?

How do they never notice

every autoimmune living within the same walls?

Why does both God and evil

need to be feared?

And where do the hidden great men live?

Are they doomed to be humans too?

I would like to go to the world they are saving.

Why none of them meet any of us?

An Epic Love Story | Kushal Narang

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

It's been some lively yesteryears

Since I met my love-lyric

Two tiny angels blessed our lives

As our love-story turned epic!

But not so simple should it seem

To one who happens reading this

Fruitful rewards need stern efforts

And that is how this love-life is!

A lonesome, handsome somebody

I think I was, some point in time

A vibrant, fragrant flower was she…

Blooming in her youthful prime

Our feelings struck a rhythm divine

Thanks to our planets and stars

But Venus was her preferred home

While I belonged to Mars!

A minor celestial rearrangement

Of tempers and temperaments galore

A little adjustment here and there

And we loved even more!

Love bore fruit in the loveliest way

An angel personified!

The apple of my eye indeed

My moment of fatherly pride!

And the fragrant flower that was her

Became Mother Nature herself

To bear and rear her treasured fruit

And raise her miniature self

While here was clumsy me instead

Balancing work and life

Servant to humanity, son to parents

And husband to my wife

Many a big, fat book I'd read

Oft managed a dreaded disease

But oh, this new-found tiny-tot

Was beyond my expertise!

But look at her, just cruising along

Through work, and house and kid

And friends and kith-and-kins all

Much more than I ever did

Time flew fast and angel grew

Cuter and naughtier by the day

Through smiles or pranks or otherwise

She would have her way!

Until of course we found a route

To magnify our world

As another angelic presence formed

And destiny unfurled…

New joys galore she brought to us

And relief from a testing time

Her tiny, yet wholesome form perfect

Her ethereal beauty sublime!

So soft and sweet her charming self

So tranquil is her sound

An experienced father is how I feel

With my second child around

And so, she grows too, so do us

In this journey of family-life

And grows along our story of love

Of daughters, man and wife!

I marvel at these big-small girls

Of different shapes and sizes

Who hold me in their loving fold

With sweet, naughty surprises!

I look again at my dear self

And can't hold back a grin

I thank the Lord for who I am

And the kind of life I'm in...

An agreeing husband, obedient father

With things in near-perfect sync

As I lay floating, an island of blue

In a sea that's coloured pink!

Lawn of Lonesome | Disha Ransingh

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

It was somewhere when I hadn’t walked the street of spring

A time when my angels turned a lonely spirit with no wings

So I skimmed and glided alone on an empty broken bridge

Thinking how I was unseen when I was visible like the crest of a mountain ridge

I too saw the lingered lamp-post cast it’s pale light on me

But the shadow made wasn’t mine, but some forlorn dead tree

Always I had known a mother who sang lullabies in the seventh heaven

A father to scare away my fears with his love’s weapon

I too had some millions of so-called bosom friends to crowd me

But as we caressed it’s just skin that touched, never was the heart free

For in my room, I just watched the windows or the crack in the ceiling

And sometimes hugged the cushion or clothes in the closet

as I whispered in the ears of stuffed animals and dolls, some secret

Cause I knew my family and friend just saw the glow of my flame

When the ashes wanted to be touched by their palm for it’s pain

I know I have always been a longing spiral staircase

All the feet have touched me, but was I ever counted just in case?

I lived and was hung like a vintage lamp in the core of a cottage

my light did reach all, but why was their glimmer of eyes always a haze?

Sometimes under auroras, I tried to sit in the heart of Cloverleaf

Waiting for some crossing car to stop, to see me as they see colours in the sky streak

Somehow I never wanted anyone to see my teardrops on a desk

Cause if they think I was lonely, then was their love just a wreck?

But then I sensed the darkest chills running down my spine

Cause hugging myself in the mirror wasn’t enough in that reign of time

So I hit every parks and parking lots just to talk to strangers

And let my voice rasp as I waited for my mother to pick up the phone

Just to utter broken words of how I just want to escape the lawn of lonesome

Fatefully, now that my lonely self has been frozen in my grip

I know hear not just mine but also the love of my loved ones' heartbeat.

Something Invisible in a Gift-Wrap | Andrea Burke

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

My hand stretches out to receive a petit-gift,

I find within it a Crimson red: giving me a powerful up-lift,

I hold it tenderly like a bird in my hand,

Feeling it's greet lup-dup, lup-dup, making me understand,

It's words as components of blood,

Flows into my veins with a thud,

Ready to have a heart-to-heart talk,

Trying to lip-sync while doing a moonwalk,

The tender heart murmurs,

And I become one of the observers:

It's rhythm and speed is involuntary,

Whereas mine; becoming voluntary,

My heart's valves are like doors:

between it's heart chambers , triggering it's pores,

Searching for it's conscience,

To grasp the real essence,

All of a sudden, it suffers a heart-block!

This refers to an aftershock.

It's still an invisible gift, a heart of gold!

It's still an invisible gift, a heart of gold!

Mirage | Yukta Vats

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I ain’t no wanderer in dust

Nor a bird of passage dying of thirst

I’m not the trickling sand in glass

Then why do I feel I’m sinking into a morass?

Of illusions and deceptions

Of pretentions and dissimulations

I see an enchanting vista before my eyes

But is it all a scape of lies?

I’m drawn towards it

As if, losing my wit

I know it’s an illusion, a mirage

But there’s this force causing me to barge

Straight into the alluring fantasy

Into the Goddess Morgana’s territory

I see the oasis of dreams

Wondering what it really means

As I move forward and touch

It becomes real, oh so very much

I sit back, reflect and ruminate

What’s real – unreal anymore, I struggle to differentiate

If I’m living in a too-believable illusion

Or the delusion of illusion was itself an illusion

Was the conceived reality so unreal?

And perceived fallacy so real?

I guess everything’s a reality, everything’s an illusion

It really is, in our own vision

To see, experience, and believe

The truth beyond what we so dearly perceive

Maybe I actually, am a traveller in a caravan

And that mirage was where the realism began

I discerned that everything’s true and at the same time untrue, I’m nothing at all

And that’s when it struck me that I have it all

Kaali | Pranit Gurung

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

She wrote her name,

With shaking hands,

And blushed,and its not first time.

Her thumb prints,

Had just been replaced,

Her letters are quite spaced.

She receives her wage with a smile,

That the dinner is guaranteed,

Some fishes could she buy,

For two sons,who are fatherless.

Her house is roofed with rusty tin,

Would only let some raindrops in,

And in corner lies a biscuit can,

Where she saves some,beside a broken fan.

Her dreams are not so big,

But daily would she crush stones and dig,

Not as good as crusher though,

Yet enough for her two sons to grow.

And one crooked night,

Her sons are nowhere to be found,

Not spared was a broken fan,

And also the biscuit can.

Distant across she sees the light,

Disappearing from her sight,

And her hope and her sons,

And Kaali slowly cried.

See | Anagha Rao

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Join me right here

And together we'll travel

To a world we belive in

One that is not all we see

Let us behold together

A world that is true

See it with our hearts,

Our minds and our souls

A world that is cruel

But beautiful and wild

Devastating and daunting

Yet filled with color

The green of the trees

The red of the blood

The blue of the oceans

And the gray of our lives

In a world of our own, we remain

Confined in our minds

Wasting away till we suffocate

Detached from the world outside

Isolated in our thoughts

We do not see

The beauty of the world

Unparalleled and simple

When your too deep to realize

That the world is not all

What our mind or our heart

Insists that it is

Take a breath and stop

Stand still and stoic

Look around, observe

And open your eyes to see

I am | Shradha Goel

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I am cold, I am hot

I remember what I’ve lost

I am sane or insane

Sometimes I am modest

Or a little vain

I like to fly

But I am caged up

I have wings

But I ain’t a bird

I am a mother

I have some duties

I am sexy with a little beauty

I attract attention

That I don’t seek

I pretend to be strong

Although I am weak

I am frustrated and aggressive

I am active and I am passive

I like flowers and I like cake

I am honest, I can’t be fake

I love to travel and have some fun

Be it in the hills or in the sun

I am a dancer, I like to sway

I to like to find my own way

I write to let it all out

I don’t care about, what I shout

I am me and no one else

I am not here to pretend or please

I am a phoenix I rise from the hell

I am a seeker, I know my shit very well

Rage | Peehu Jaiswal

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

if i expressed my rage

The colour would be red

And the walls would bleed

The world didn't owe me anything

But it didn't have to cut so deep

I wasn't just robbed of my innocence

You were equally responsible for taking it away

And I was so busy trying to understand you

I forgot even my grief had a weight

You were a victim but a bystander too

And I was in this cause of you

I spent all my life making sense of it all

Trying to be there fr you as much as i can

Always cushioning your fall

We had all the love in the world but the colour was blue

I was there for you so much that i forgot i needed you too

Loss | Bhannu Vashishta

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

You pray to your phone to connect,

for one last call to a person who left

this world an year ago.

You wish for a "last time", "last words"

leaving their mouth.

If only letting go was as easy as

blowing a dandelion.

I wish for a speed post service

to be available to the stars,

where mother says the dead live.

You wish for a last train to exist,

to take you to the exact star you wanted to reach.

You turn the pages of your novel,

your glasses carrying a tint of hope

to find a theory to revive all the stars that stopped shining.

They say you need eight or twelve hugs a day,

while you barely manage to have a half

and your spine aches.

Death wants you so much,

yet you toughen your fingers

to write a goodbye that stood half,

with a heart whose

three out of four parts are full,

you pinch your skin at the end,

to snap your mind out of loss,

a loss whose eight parts felt missing.

You convince your arteries to not bleed,

to believe that universe hears all,

hoping for a movement inside photographs.

Loss is an empty well

that keeps you searching

for a barrier between our world and theirs.

Loss, makes you homeless

Loss, makes you a begger craving for life,

whose heart doesn't pump enough blood

to fill the empty spaces.

If there's an ocean deeper than the Pacific,

it's Loss.

Five telephones at home and none to make a conversation with the one who's gone.

Twenty something envelopes

and no letter to wrap inside.

How to reach the reciever's address ?

A hand to harm yourself, and no one to hold it.

A brain to think,

but your heart's a coping mechanism for searching all ways out.

Words to write, but no one to send to.

Am I still waiting for the last train?

मौन शब्द | Surbhi Aggarwal

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

तुमको भाती है पायल,

और कंगन खनकते हाथों में।

आघात अहम पर बोली मेरी,

दिलचस्पी नहीं जज़्बातों में।।

तुम को भाती है रोटी गोल,

और चोटिल करते हैं पदक मेरे।

मदहोश करे मुस्कान तुम्हें,

और सपने बोझ लगे मेरे।।

आगे बढ़ने की होड़ नहीं पर,

क्यों चलते रहना हक नहीं मेरा।

तुम दौड़ दौड़ सीखो उड़ना,

क्यों मैं भाती हूं खड़ी वहीं।।

Locksmith | Will You Be Able to Open It | Kaustubhi Reddy

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

They didn't even use pencils,

So I could rub it out.

Markers pens underlining my flaws,

Highlighting what they think are my sins.

Why would you scribble my story?

Change it the way you want it to be.

No please don't tear that bit,

No don't fold that part,

Stop creasing it.

These are my pages,

My versions of my tales.

Stop trapping them in your brutal cages,

Stop stealing my boat before it even sails.

But none of you listened.

Watched me recite my story first.

Made fun of my sentences behind me,

All you made me feel was imprisoned.

The present wonders why my book is so deeply locked,

The present wonders about the secrets I have blocked.

But oh dear locksmith,

It's my past,

Unwilling to trust.

It thinks even you'll break me like glass,

And my tears acting like rust.

Will you be able to open it?

So that I can make my own edits.

Do you think the lock and key will still fit?

Unlock my words,

Don't break them.

Read my nouns my verbs,

Don't mock them.

But how can I know for sure?

How can I trust you,

Because for me the word lost its shine.

Please tell me your soul is true and pure,

Please tell me your heart won't smash mine...

Unspoken | Y Nidhi Shenoy

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I wonder about the things we say too quietly,

To ever be heard aloud;

I wonder why we deem it essential,

To cover the rawest parts of ourselves, in order to stand proud?

There are things- too quiet, too delicate,

To be spoken in the daylight;

Things that are crafted vaguely, brought up after the sunset or before the sunrise,

Things meant to be choked out in voices slight;

We humans are odd creatures- masters at hiding what we mean,

We speak so loudly half the time,

So that no one hears the invisible unseen;

Maybe we swallow words for the best,

Exactly for the reason we're scared of death-

We prefer happy lies that hurt to swallow, than the bitter truth that's difficult to digest.

As Love | Navjyot Kaur

THE FOLLOWING POEM HAS BEEN SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Love does not sit idle from its passion

it stirs the greatest of fires, that of our deepest calling within,

to be love

Love is the wild child,

running barefoot and untamed, amidst the inner kingdom,

to the majestic throne of Oneness

Love is the alchemist,

shakes with frenzy and fervour purifying the roots of illusion

with the elixir of its embrace

Love does not possess, neither need to be loved,

it liberates in pure magnificence

in blissful presence, as love

Love is the warrior unleashed

whose unbreakable courage defends the divine right and the sacred law

to love and to be love

Love is the sunset

a friend, holding your hand and painting a sky full of wonder

walking you home to love

Love is the beacon of truth,

paving the way for the brilliance of the light within

to light the path for all

Love is the revolution

armed with a crystalline sword of righteousness, when all crashes and falls

it remains victorious for love

Love, for love

Love, as love

About the poet

Navjyot is a poet of Indian origin, born in the UK and living in rural France. She writes poetry that digs deep within the individual to shine a light upon and reveal one's inner landscape, bringing the sub-conscious into the conscious mind. Her spiritual path is her guiding compass to bring transformation of the Self and deep-seated change into the world. This is is profoundly felt within her poetry.

Her poetry has been published in Kindred Spirit Magazine, ROAR Feminine Rising Magazine and Braided Way as well as stage performances across Europe including the Brighton Fringe Festival, England's largest arts festival, the Antic Teatre in Barcelona and others. With an active spirituality at its heart, her words and imagery question, prompt and most certainly empower and will never leave you indifferent.