Dreams In Ruins
The grace of the silence, the trace of the moon is,
The flames of the soul , shows what a ruin is.
On the threshold of heart , where the treasure resides,
There in aromatic air blow , in which infant dreams glide,
Free, clueless of outside world, seems in only ghat of world,
Not knowing they will be throttled if they not cost gold,
Not the rain outpours and dream contrast with profession,
Now the dream began to diminish , as the setting sun,
For reprieve the mind asked heart - what a ruin is?
Heart smiled and said-"traces of tears on the cheak of eternity.
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