Neha's Notebook

  We are all puppets Of the great cosmic designer, The one who fills the morning suns With cups of yellow golden sunshine And the one who chimes and shimmers In the silver moon of the starry nights.   We are all puppets Of the great cosmic kite-flyer The one, at whose fingertips Fly the kites of all colours and shapes.   We are all puppets Of the great cosmic musician At whose rhythms do we pulsate Like strings of a guitar Like keys of a piano.   We are all puppets Of the great cosmic painter Who paints in lush green The crisp needles of leaves And the blades of the grass thin Who paints the curtains of butterflies and the rings of rainbows…   We are all puppets Of the great cosmic sculptor At whose fingertips, Does clay models itself And the mud vases fill their moulds.   We are all puppets Of the magnificent cosmic magician At the spell of whose wand Shimmers the wave tips, At the ver...

She rides the winds like wild horses racing through hilltops, meadows and plains,   The wilderness of infinities, Racing through her   gold-dipped heart, her ruby-amber veins…   Like doves she flutters, Like eagles she soars, Like dragons she burns Like tigers she roars.   Fierce as a fighter, Tender as a dewdrop she is Her seasons are a mystery to all, Like a storm sometimes, sometimes a rain she is.   Carved like a gem-dripping jewel, Magnificent as a rose’s petal lips She’s painted in the rainbow brushstrokes of god’s fingertips.   Mighty as a warrior when she is, She’s all thorns and swords, Darkness engulfs her stardust, She is a world beyond words.   She is the womb of darkness, She is the source of light too, Some call her “nature”, But her name is “life” too.