I am a philosopher without a philosophy,
Always ready to tell a new little story,
About a dreamy day, about a lovely yesterday,
Of a hot April and a hotter May.

I write poetry before I could forget,
How really beautiful life can get,
About black clouds and the fogs of Dehradun,
Of the rains which shall set upon the hills; soon.

Love has always been my biggest mystery,
Perhaps in some ways a begotten destiny,
From an unknown railway platform on a lonely night,
From lovely little eyes; dark, shiny and bright.

Its been ages since I planted my cherry tree,
Today it grows among bushes and wild country,
And though I’ve grown fatter than it has grown tall,
I still run like a boy to see the snow fall.

In the modern times I still exist,
Like a relic from the past ages,
On the money from my books I subsist,
Without urban tensions, without costly appendages