every second has its own glamor,
in every turn there's existed
another destination,
between the
snarl of
day
and night, there's a potential of rise -
some half bloomed tuberose
always wait for the moon,
it's different matter
that, often moon
forgets to
fulfill
the promise, the fragrance couldn't
be caged it sprays unseen
inner realization - -
* *
- SHANTANU SANYAL
