I heard the words,

Be precise, to the point

And I asked

“my friend, but how?”

A surprise stares at me and laughs

“I don’t know, they keep saying it.”

Precisions, short words

Broken fragments

“I was thinking the other day…”

“come lets go to the restaurant.”

Clinking plates and spoons

No words, just unfinished conversations.


They say silence speaks volumes

Buzzing thoughts racing each other,

No silence is left to speak

Only memories of incomplete sentences

Left unattended, and precisely trimmed.


How my friend?” the question remains

Thoughts flow only in solitude and in brains

Rushing forth and being controlled

A traffic police called society

Signalling the magnitude.


Poems are the secrets

Written in torrents

Where a river flows

Branches, and grows

I found this current

Flowing from a single point

Like the holy spots from mountains

To the plains.


Precisions are but the beginnings

With no ends

Cramping unpleasant blends

Dreams obstructing, diverging strands

Course changers, claustrophobic enclosures


But, precious time, has only 24 hours

Wherein lies no room for thoughtful showers

Hence there comes in a requirement

Of a faith in the environment

Cosmic time, the generating power,

Of all thoughts and creative hours

Realization brings revelation.


To a moment which is famous for precision

To merge into a silence

No more blank with broken fragments

But filled with endless thought power

Never requiring words, nor ideas

Just a silent conversation.


Leaving no queries unanswered

And an un-presence of obstructions

Just a constant communion,

Where you listen to a sound

And the sound listens to you.

rachana allamraju

a sailing ship in search of a shore to anchor.

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