The world is a fruit basket,
I am an orange.
The bright colour ornamenting,
The outer coat of,
Thick, bitter,citric peel,
With an alluring aroma,
Of resplendent rejuvenation.
Among the glossy grapes and cheeky cherries,
The blushing apples and beautiful berries,
I am an orange sweetly sour.
The hands pick me up,
The nails see through me,
The orange peel is kept aside,
Later to be used as a scrub.
In thin white strands,
Of instinctual,intuitive projections,
Creeping out of a capricious mind,
Embracing the sheer cover on my souls,
One by one my beings are detached,
From the bonds of my moratorium,
The souls inside are crushed with the tongue,
A few bitter dreams i leave behind,
For many more souls to grow from them.
I move on towards an identity.
With the saliva in the mouth,
The sap mixes,
A different identity is achieved.
Peel is used by the foreclosures,
To cleanse the spots of my various selves,
That spurted out of my tiny and tender structures,
Covered by a transparent sheath of faith.
I am an orange.
I rejuvenate the dreams,
My souls merge with the venous blood,
And flows through the world.
In the foreclosures as the insanity,
Whirling in the mind,
I breathe the fresh dew,
In the mist that shadows,
The faith of time...
I shine though centuries,
With a bright orange, shy smile...
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इस यतीम रात को मैं कौन सा एक नाम दूँ, क्या राख़ में लपेट कर, इस पाक, कोरे चाँद को, रख दूँ तेरी याद की, गिरह में कहीं. या...