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It Was A sunday.


sunday
It was a quiet day.
Is it a Sunday?

None walked down the street all day.
No cars hooted during the course of the day.

Nothing to diffuse the serenity of the day
except the rustling of leaves in the alley,
humming a melodious tune to the breezy wave.

No other thing to distract the quietness
except the murmuring of the river with an eagerness
repeating the flow in a sequential liveliness,

None the less the day passed on untainted.
The day folded naturally without being garishly painted.
The serenity released a sombre feeling much awaited

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Orchestra


It was dark and serene.

Clouds moved  across,.

lightning  struck ahead,

thunder blasted over,

rains lashed with force,

the scene was sombre,

the light  effect was dazzling,

the sound was deafening,

creating an orchestra,

neither of mirth,

nor of melancholy,

but of reality,

and of credibility.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Promises Made


Not graceful to go back,

On the path you track,

On the word you   speak ,

On the promises you  peak.

 

 

 

Very easy to break,

The  path for your sake,

To alter the words for  your  take,

To shrug of the promise you make.

 

 

Never give way to fancy,

Nor succumb to  urgency,

As they will lead you to  frenzy,

By folding you up in an insurgency.

 

 

Promises  are  to be made

After  calling  for an important grade,

They do not reckon a trade,

Of profit and  loss assayed.

 

 

The words you utter,

Are not a mere mutter,

But a record of greater,

Practices and  charter.

 

 

Promises carry dignity

They are an outcome of serenity,

Done with absolute sincerity

Imposing a sombre gravity .

 

 

So never take  them  as  a joke

Promises create a definite epoch,

As they fly above the mediocre folk,

Embellishing a branded stroke.

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