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
“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.