Here,
faces will flood around you
and may half fill your compartments
with dew-drops of love, or bristling
hot hatred.
A little of jealousy, some pain, a bit of joy
or…, a quantity of nothingness.

But,
only one in a lakh can touch your heart
stir your soul and balm your wounds
and tenderly kiss the dead flower of hope
to life
and master the complex tunes of a mind
which none else could ever know.

When,
the world drags you to death
and withers your life with winter
it arrives with spring in eyes
and awakens the buds of life
to be the glory of cheerful streets.

Then,
as you muse over the face’s warmth
it fades far away from you
leaving a few months to guard
a joy, which ages cannot hold
in the desolate plains of sorrow.