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Rajas Nagpurkar Jan 2017
Gazing through the looking glass, and attempting to reminisce, he lets go, relieves, and perceives.Colossi of raindrops subtly fall through sky’s shadows , violently battling the grey in great amounts, failing to come anywhere near the threshold of one’s most sensitive ear. Nature’s children appear to tremble as dark forebodings of a dreary future pervade the air. The danger and annoyances of such rarities is always given priority and significance. He misunderstands it; he believes in its false infinity.

Unable to stabilize, unable to achieve a desired normality. From every pitter, he regrets; from every patter he forgets. Forcefully drudging through the thick swamp of his mind, struggling to understand what and why, diminishing his hopes of any change, any desire. Suddenly, several elements collide against his one-way mirror in his cell and revitalize his consciousness. Looking through the droplet, his face pressed against, his mentality momentarily produces quick successions of thoughts and random impulses of recovering memory.  

Every snowflake understands its place as sui generis; every raindrop understands its place as trite. The beauty of a snowflake with death, the dullness of rain with life. It’s uniformity and strict nature are necessary to sustain life, but somehow it places a bittersweet piece of an unusual feeling inside him. Its unexplainable transparency, disguising itself as invisible, but not untouchable, stimulates a sense of deep nostalgic hopelessness within him. As he discovers the profound pulchritude, and simultaneous incomprehensibility, of the paradoxical elements of natural and artificial state cooperating to achieve more of the same, he realizes more in this moment. The monotonous, repetitive beat of rain seems to harmonize in an odd manner with some contrasting presence.

A new rhythm to this sound, a new color to this sight. A particular emotion of gradually diminishing despair comes about as he observes little rain boots composing a sort of  rhythmic song with the catchy beat of the rain’s clashing, the continuous flow of the tree’s trembling, the back-up percussion of the thunder’s loud suddenness, the sight of lightning's exciting flash, and the cheerful singing from their voices.Upon this feat, he accepts the shadow’s tears; no longer must he endure the pain of the past’s ******* of the future, now he begins to savor the varied colors of newfound harmony.
Dreams, dreams
Visions come as favela blossoming into a forthcoming
Bounty
For all the Earth citizens
  Having a cosy home
     Clean waters
Creative life

Without existential suffering

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Crystal windows rest,
Glistening at the faintest of lights
Its ivory body filled with luster and glints of awe
Pure, neither tainted nor cracked.
Iris is at an ocher hue with umber undertones,
A mandala etched by nature on polished stone
Centering a void that engulfs
All that gaze upon the ascetic purity it holds

"Its fairness is a lie," cried the Right eye.

Ruby stone fractured,
Crumbling at the gentlest blow of wind
Its crimson dyed sheen is broken beyond repair
Bloodshot, both pained and aggrieved.
Iris is jet as the night that is starless,
Singularity of corruption and indignation made stone
At one with the entropy
Emanating from its core, its truth breaking away

"Says you who bathes in rusted scarlet!" shouts the Left.

But both window to the patriotic soul fail to see
That their visions made one is what's needed
In steering society towards a panoramic view of tomorrow.
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