As the morning sun struggled to rise up,

fighting to break free from the clouds,

to unwrap itself from the heavy blanket of cold wind,

struggling up from the valley floor,

the clouds pulled the wind up with them,

the wind pulled the clouds up with it,

ssshh. It hissed. And Roared. SSSHHHH

Windy Day (image taken via a Google search)

Windy Day (image taken via a Google search)

પાણા અને પાણી

ચમકતી ધારા ની ચળકતી ધાર
ધીમે થી અંદર ઉત્રી જાય,
મારી સાથે એક બનીને
મને ઘમી જાય..

ક્યારેક શાંત સર્કી મારી બની જાય
પૂર બની ને વહી ને મારી જાય..
ક્યારેક હસ્તી નાચ્તી કૂદતી જાય
સાંપ ની જેમ ડસી જાય,
થીજી ને જામી જાય
પ્રકાશ માં ફરી જીવિત થાય..

એના અતૂટ અખૂટ ચક્ર મને કહે
મારામાં પલળી ને અસીમ વહે

ઘણાં પાણા, ઘણું પાણી
મારામાં રેહવાના, ઓગળવાના..

And below, a quick, basic and rough translation (Realized how difficult it is to translate even something that is your own work. I can imagine the effort needed, the struggle required, the depth one would have to go to to understand someone else’s work to translate, and finally the reward of having done it satisfactorily.

Title: Water and Rocks

The glistening edge of a glittering stream

slowly slides into me,

becomes one with me.

I feel good about it.

Sometimes, it slides past me silently, becoming mine,

Sometimes, it becomes a flood and kills me,

sometimes it playfully dances and jumps around,

while sometimes, serpentine, it bites me.

It freezes, and stays frozen,

In the light it becomes alive again

Its unbroken, unending cycles tell me

Come, get drenched in me and flow, flow limitless.

A lot of stones, a lot of water,

Will stay in me, and melt away.


અજાણ્યા અને ઓળખીતાં

વર્ષો ના ગાળા પછી મળેલા વર્ષો થી
જાણીતાં દોસ્તારો અજાણ્યા લાગે છે;
ઈ હિસાબે ડુંગર દરિયા જંગલ આકાશ માં
કાંઈક તો ખાસ હશેજ..

Fractals of Life

A rose bud awaited bloom
in excitement of Life itself,
To stretch her petals
and play with the wind,
to exchange scents with her fellows
and kisses with the rain.

A tumbler of water
was all that stood
between spring and winter,
between Life and Death.

They came and spilt it.
She gasped in shock

They laughed.

Their joyful laughter
numbed her pain
And she waited, silent.
Awaiting not her death,
But her Life.

You see ,
the thing about Seasons is ,
like Karma,
they work in cycles.
And the thing about evil is,
it’s Foolish
Foolish to think Silence is weak.

She knew her Seasons
She knew her Freedom
They were her Friends.
And so her roots she kept working,
stretching and holding,
till they reached all the water
they’d so joyously spilt.

Her source of life
SHE has become,
Be it drought , flood or malice,
She will never succumb.


Acrylic color on paper – Thread art

The Sculptor , The Sculpted

At the feet of cloud-kissed hills, I sit holding clay on a wheel
as the flow of a nascent stream, steadies slowly my flooding thoughts
and the sound of it’s fierce fall, breaks steadily my rigid hold ,
on all things known, unknown.
My ears echo softly, this new-found calm – sun to my mist
and I wait for the clay to respond to this new touch.

My hands soon lust a form – alas too eager, impatient
I falter once more .
But the gentle clay , innocence unguarded yet aware,
has faith in the sculptor and forms to come
and the tireless wheel moves, in wisdom of
its endless timeless motion.

Slowly in glimpses I begin to understand
the sculptor and the sculpted .


In the scent of the earth as she bathes,
and the roar of the sea when she waves
In the stillness of the river as oars strike,
and the wetness of dew as sun awakes
In the thirst of a man lost at sea,
and the farmer’s smile as spells break
In the dreams that set sail as boats float,
and the splash in mudplies as kids play
In the soft tryst with snow as it fades,
and the sweet sound of drops as trees sway
In the fate of the leaves as seasons change,
and the wells of joy ‘n sorrow that tears make
You are.
Therefore I am