Poetry, a
unity of words in flight,
A canvas of
emotions, colors so bright,
But meanings
get lost when tongues intertwine,
In
translation's clasp essence may decline.
In
unfamiliar scripts, may falter, lie low,
Nuances whispering
in the poet's tongue,
Transformed
in translation, like songs left unsung.
In translations, new stories may enhance,
For languages mix, cultures enrich,
A harmony woven in words so bewitch.
In
translations, new worlds of verse are unbound.
In modern times, a meal is born,
A flavor quest, that none could scorn.
Lay’s Kettle Cooked, with taste and bite,
Potato chips, the main delight.
Chicken, sliced thin, a ready base,
To join the flavor quest, with grace.
Eggs and water, a combo stirred,
Egg-wash made, as hopes were spurred.
Flour and cornstarch, seasonings mixed,
Salt and pepper, darkness fixed.
Paprika’s flare, a fiery note,
Seasoned flour, a shield of dote.
Crushed Lay’s chips, a pile of treasure,
In shallow tray, they lie with pleasure.
Chicken, seasoned, dusted light,
Dipped in egg, like morning’s bright.
Excess falls, a moment still,
Chip embrace, a worthy thrill.
Gently pressed, to bond with love,
Warrior’s armor, a crispy glove.
Sheet tray beckons, foil’s wrap,
Crusted soldiers, in cozy nap.
Oven’s rage, a challenge fierce,
Twenty turns, a deed to pierce.
Flipped with ease, among the fire,
Cooking dance, a skillful choir.
Crunchy coat, a sound of joy,
Chips intact, on chicken’s ploy.
Lay’s Crusted Chicken, splendid show,
Comes out strong, from oven’s glow.
Toasted bun, a place of fame,
Mayo’s spread, a royal name.
Pickles hop, with zesty charm,
Lettuce lends, a greeny arm.
Tomato’s slice, a beauty fine,
A meal done, beyond sublime.
So grab a bite, ye hungry folk,
As epic flavors make you stoke.
Lay’s Kettle Cooked, a legend spun,
A flavor quest, now begun.
The Last Wish
He had always wanted to see the stars. He had spent his life studying astronomy, gazing at the night sky, dreaming of traveling to space. But he was born too late. The world was dying, and so was he. He had a terminal illness, and no hope of a cure.
He decided to spend his last days in a remote cabin, away from the chaos and despair. He brought his telescope with him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the celestial beauty before he passed away.
But the sky was always cloudy. He never saw a single star.
He died alone, with one wish unfulfilled.
One day, you
will cross my path, I believe,
Blooms shall
adorn the roads, I perceive.
I never
fathomed this destined scheme.
A day shall
come, life so exquisitely fair,
Sky will
dance, earth's melody in the air,
A day shall
come, life beyond compare,
Sky will
dance, earth's melody in the air,
I never
fathomed such dreams would share.
Within the
heart's grove, blossoms awake,
When gazes
meet, an enchanting bond to make,
One day,
lost in this trance, we shall partake,
Close you
draw, and mesmerized, we shall ache,
I never
fathomed such a journey we'd undertake.
A
shimmering, awakened night's embrace,
Is it night
or a celestial starry grace?
One day,
within my heart's trails, with grace,
For love's
flames, so many lamps we shall place.
A day shall
come, life so exquisitely fair,
Sky will
dance, earth's melody in the air,
I never
fathomed such dreams would share.
One day,
you'll find me along your way,
Blossoms
shall pave the paths, so they say,
I never
fathomed this destined display.
A dish that dazzles with its golden glow,
A fusion of flavors from lands we don’t know.
A chicken so tender, so juicy and plump,
A canvas for spices to paint and to dump.
Behold the citrus sun in a dish of gold,
A chicken recipe with secrets untold.
From exotic places where herbs abound,
To create a feast that will astound.
Ingredients:
Marination:
In a bowl of magic, the chicken lies,
As saffron sprinkles on its eager thighs.
Citrus juice poured with gentle hand,
A fragrance of wonder now fills the land.
Hints of thyme, a dash of charm,
An aromatic spell in this holy farm.
Honey flows like rays of sun,
A pledge of softness to be won.
Preparation:
In a nest of calm, let it rest,
As day fades to night, and moonlight caress
Its silver touch, a bewitching grace,
Infusing the chicken with flavors to chase.
On a bed of rosemary, let it rest,
In an oven’s hug, a change will crest.
As minutes dance and hours pass,
A masterpiece emerges, a class apart.
Presentation:
Place it on a plate, a splendid sight,
A golden jewel in dim light.
Garnish with thyme and a twist of dreams,
A culinary star, or so it seems.
Serve with joy, with friends to enjoy,
As the aroma tells stories in the sky.
Each bite a voyage, a heavenly flight,
In the domain of flavors, pure delight.
Golden Citrus Chicken, A symphony of senses, a creation fine.
Innovation’s kiss, a culinary art, Where poetry and gastronomy align.
Beyond mere life's existence lies the quest,
To find a
purpose, reason to endure,
Not in mere
living, lies what's truly best,
But in
pursuit of dreams, passions pure.
As stars in
heavens twinkle, form a tale,
Each life
must forge a path uniquely bright,
The mystery
unfolds as we set sail,
On journey's
seas, through day and darkest night.
To merely
breathe is not enough, my friend,
For life is
but a canvas, blank and wide,
To find a
cause on which our hearts depend,
In purpose,
life transcends the ebbing tide.
So seek the
meaning, let it be thy guide,
And in thy
quest, the mystery shall subside.
"Build a Better World," said God above,
A daunting task, a labor of love,
I pondered aloud, "How can it be done?
This vast, complex world, where battles are won."
In insignificance, I felt so small,
Lost in a world with troubles that sprawl,
"What difference can I truly make?
My efforts a drop in an endless lake."
With gentle grace, God's voice did say,
"Start with yourself, in your own way,
To build a better world anew,
Begin by building a better you."
Each step we take, each choice we make,
A ripple of change, a chance to wake,
From ignorance and apathy's shroud,
To a life of purpose, standing proud.
Kindness sown in the hearts we touch,
Compassion's flame can mean so much,
In every word, and every deed,
A chance to plant a virtuous seed.
Embrace the flaws, the journey's strife,
A canvas to paint a meaningful life,
For by evolving from deep within,
We set the stage for a world to begin.
The battles we fight, the wars we wage,
Can find their end on wisdom's stage,
For as we learn, and as we grow,
A brighter path, we can bestow.
"Build a better world," God's words endure,
Not through grand feats, but actions pure,
So let us start, with hearts renewed,
And build a better world, a better you.
Hydrogen is the first, it’s the lightest of them all
Helium is number two, it makes balloons and voices small
Lithium is number three, it powers up your phone
Beryllium is number four, it’s used in aerospace and bone
Boron is number five, it makes glass and ceramics tough
Carbon is number six, it’s the basis of all life stuff
Nitrogen is number seven, it fills the air we breathe
Oxygen is number eight, it makes water and rust on steel
Fluorine is number nine, it protects your teeth from decay
Neon is number ten, it glows in signs with colors gay
Sodium is number eleven, it’s essential for your health
Magnesium is number twelve, it boosts your energy and stealth
Aluminum is number thirteen, it’s light and strong and cheap
Silicon is number fourteen, it’s in computers and sand deep
Phosphorus is number fifteen, it’s in DNA and matches
Sulfur is number sixteen, it smells bad and burns with flashes
Chlorine is number seventeen, it disinfects your pool
Argon is number eighteen, it’s inert and very cool
Potassium is number nineteen, it helps your muscles work
Calcium is number twenty, it builds your bones and teeth perk
Scandium is number twenty-one, it’s rare and hard to find
Titanium is number twenty-two, it’s strong and light combined
Vanadium is number twenty-three, it makes steel alloys better
Chromium is number twenty-four, it adds shine and prevents rust
Manganese is number twenty-five, it’s in batteries and steel
Iron is number twenty-six, it’s magnetic and can heal
Cobalt is number twenty-seven, it’s blue and radioactive
Nickel is number twenty-eight, it’s tough and attractive
Copper is number twenty-nine, it conducts heat and electricity
Zinc is number thirty, it fights colds and boosts immunity.
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Love's
gentle touch, a fire that warms the heart,
Yet Hate's
cold grasp, a poison in the soul,
Two passions
strong, tearing worlds apart,
One makes us
whole, one seeks to take its toll.
In Love, we
find a balm for wounds so deep,
A bond
that's forged through moments sweet and true,
But Hate, a
storm that makes compassion sleep,
Its flames
consume, leaving ashes in its view.
So let us
choose with wisdom in our minds,
To cultivate
the love that heals and grows,
And shun the
hate that blinds, its poison binds,
For in these
choices, humanity's path shows.
Love's
beacon guides, Hate's darkness we'll evade,
Two
opposites, and yet the choices made.
A young
man's heart beats for justice and more,
In
socialism's vision, ideals do implore,
But time's
passage transforms the fiery youth,
Into an old
sage who embraces the truth.
Heart's
fervor and head's pragmatism combine,
In the
spectrum of beliefs, they entwine,
For ideals,
when tempered by wisdom's embrace,
Find balance
in visions, new pathways to trace.
Youth's
passion ignites, like sparks in the dark,
Dreams of
equality, a society's spark,
But years
teach the lessons of governance' weight,
In balance,
decisions of consequence rate.
So socialist
heart and wise head unite,
Guiding a
nation through days and through nights.
Raindrops tapped lightly against the terracotta rooftops of the village of Udai. The air was filled with the earthy scent of wet soil, and the villagers, clad in vibrant sarees and dhotis, moved about their daily routines with a sense of anticipation. Monsoon had arrived in all its glory, turning the arid landscape into a sea of green.
At the heart of Udai lived a young girl named Anaya, whose eyes sparkled with curiosity. Anaya had always felt a deep connection with the rain. She believed that raindrops held a secret, a melody that only a few could hear. She would often sit by her window, entranced by the rhythmic dance of the rain on the leaves.
One afternoon, as the rain poured down in a gentle symphony, Anaya's grandmother, Amma, called her into the kitchen. "Anaya, my dear," Amma said with a smile, "have you ever noticed the music of the rain?"
Anaya's eyes widened in surprise. How could Amma know about her secret thoughts? She nodded, unable to find her voice.
Amma chuckled softly. "I thought so. Come, sit with me."
As Anaya sat at the kitchen table, Amma placed a copper plate before her. On it were a few water droplets collected from the rain. "Listen closely," Amma instructed.
Anaya leaned in, her heart racing. She closed her eyes and focused on the tiny droplets. And then, as if by magic, she heard it—the faintest, most delicate melody. It was as if the raindrops were playing a song just for her, a song that whispered of ancient stories and hidden dreams.
Tears of wonder glistened in Anaya's eyes as she opened them. "Amma, it's beautiful. How did you know?"
Amma's eyes twinkled. "My dear, the rain has been singing its melodies for generations. We are all connected to the rhythms of nature if we only take the time to listen."
From that day on, Anaya's fascination with rain turned into a lifelong passion. She began collecting rainwater in small vials, each droplet a unique note in her growing collection of melodies. She experimented with different surfaces, from the metal plates to leaves and petals, discovering that each surface produced a distinct sound.
As the monsoon season continued, Anaya's courtyard transformed into a musical wonderland. Suspended from the branches of the ancient banyan tree were delicate chimes crafted from glass and metal, creating an orchestra that resonated with the pitter-patter of rain. Villagers from all around came to experience the enchanting symphony, their faces filled with awe and appreciation.
One day, a group of children gathered around Anaya's courtyard. They watched in fascination as she carefully placed tiny glass bottles on various surfaces, bringing forth an intricate symphony that captured the essence of the rain. Anaya saw the same wonder in their eyes that she had felt when she first discovered the rain's melodies.
Inspired, Anaya decided to share her knowledge with the village children. She started conducting workshops, teaching them to listen to the rain and create their own melodies. The children's laughter blended harmoniously with the raindrops, turning each session into a celebration of nature's music.
Word of Anaya's workshops spread beyond the village, reaching the nearby towns and cities. She was invited to schools, festivals, and cultural events to showcase her unique talent. Anaya's melodies became a symbol of the deep connection between humans and the environment, reminding people to appreciate the beauty that surrounded them.
As years passed, Anaya's once-small courtyard grew into a thriving hub of creativity. Musicians, artists, and nature enthusiasts flocked to Udai to experience the magic of Monsoon Melodies. The courtyard had transformed into an open-air amphitheater, with colorful umbrellas suspended from the trees, catching raindrops that played their own part in the symphony.
Anaya's journey had come full circle, from a young girl who believed in the whispers of rain to a woman who had woven those whispers into a tapestry of melodies that resonated with hearts across the land. And even though the monsoon would come and go, the music of rain would forever remain etched in the memory of the village of Udai, a testament to the power of listening and the beauty of connection.
In the heart of rural Rajasthan, where the scorching sun painted the earth an arid brown, lived a woman named Anika. The land was unforgiving, its soil dry and cracked, seemingly devoid of life. Yet, amidst this parched landscape, Anika nurtured a dream that seemed as improbable as it was inspiring.
Anika, a skilled botanist with a heart full of determination, believed in the power of nature's resilience. Her dream was to transform the barren wasteland into a vibrant oasis of greenery. Armed with her knowledge and an unyielding spirit, she set out on a journey that would test her every ounce of perseverance.
Day by day, Anika experimented with innovative techniques. She carefully selected native plants that could endure the harsh conditions, embracing the challenge rather than yielding to it. With ingenuity and sweat, she dug deep into the earth, conserving every precious drop of water and coaxing life from the reluctant ground.
Her efforts were met with skepticism from the villagers, who saw her endeavors as a futile pursuit. Yet, Anika remained undeterred. She held workshops, teaching the community about sustainable farming methods and the importance of caring for the environment. Slowly but surely, a small group of curious minds joined her cause.
Months turned into years, and Anika's oasis began to take shape. The once-barren land now boasted a tapestry of vibrant wildflowers and hardy shrubs. Children played under the shade of trees, women gathered to exchange stories, and the air carried the sweet scent of blooming blossoms. Anika's dream was coming true – she had created a sanctuary of life where none seemed possible.
As news of her remarkable accomplishment spread, the community's pride swelled. The oasis became a symbol of hope, a testament to the potential hidden within adversity. Anika's efforts transformed not just the land, but also the mindset of the people. The wasteland was no longer a curse but a canvas of possibilities.
Anika's story echoed through the ages, inspiring generations to come. Her dedication had turned a seemingly desolate stretch of land into a thriving ecosystem, proving that with determination and a deep understanding of nature, one could breathe life into the most unlikely of places. And so, amidst the barren backdrop of rural Rajasthan, Anika's oasis stood as a reminder that resilience could indeed bloom even in the harshest of circumstances.
In the heart of a bustling city, where towering skyscrapers cast shadows on the streets, lived a young artist named Maya. With a heart full of dreams and a spray can in hand, she turned forgotten walls into vibrant masterpieces. But life was not kind to Maya, as she navigated the harsh streets, struggling to make ends meet.
Maya's art spoke of resilience and hope. Each stroke of her brush told stories of forgotten dreams and untamed spirits. Despite the challenges that life threw at her, Maya's passion remained unyielding. Her canvas was the city itself, and she painted to inspire others to rise above their circumstances.
One fateful day, a renowned art critic happened upon Maya's work. He was captivated by the emotions her paintings evoked - the vivid colors seemed to breathe life into the concrete walls. The critic's article praised Maya's art, describing it as a beacon of light in the urban darkness.
Word spread like wildfire, and soon, galleries clamored to exhibit Maya's creations. The girl who once painted in obscurity was now the talk of the town. But fame didn't change Maya; she remained humble, continuing to pour her heart onto the city's walls.
As her art gained recognition, Maya found herself connecting with people from all walks of life. Strangers would stop and share their stories, finding solace and inspiration in her work. Maya's art became a bridge that united a community that had once been divided by indifference.
With her newfound success, Maya didn't forget her roots. She started organizing art workshops for underprivileged children, showing them the transformative power of creativity. Together, they turned gray alleyways into bursts of color, and the children's eyes sparkled with newfound hope.
Maya's journey from struggle to stardom served as a reminder that dreams could be woven from the fabric of adversity. Her art had not only revitalized the city's streets but also revitalized the spirits of its inhabitants. The walls, once mere barriers, had become canvases of inspiration, reminding everyone that in the midst of darkness, a single spark of creativity could ignite a blaze of change.
And so, the city transformed. Its walls echoed with stories of resilience and triumph, a testament to Maya's unwavering spirit. Her art had not only painted colors on concrete but had painted a brighter future for herself and the community she touched.
Faithless is He That Says Farewell
Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens,
For in the shadows, life's deepest mysteries unfold,
And though the night may shroud our vision,
It is in darkness that our spirits find their strength.
When stars retreat and hope seems but a flicker,
Do not falter, for within you lies a beacon,
A fire untamed, a reservoir of dreams,
That can illuminate even the blackest of nights.
Embrace the obsidian path, the winding uncertainty,
For it is in these moments of doubt and despair,
That the soul is forged, tempered by adversity,
And emerges as a phoenix from its ashes.
When all seems lost, and faith begins to wane,
Remember, in the heart of chaos, new worlds are born,
And the seeds of resilience take root in fertile soil,
Patiently waiting for the dawn's first light.
The road may be rugged, steep, and filled with thorns,
Yet every step you take, each stumble and fall,
Is a testament to your unwavering spirit,
A testament to the courage within your soul.
Do not bid adieu to hope when shadows loom large,
Instead, grasp it tightly, like a lifeline,
For faith is not a fair-weather companion,
But the steadfast anchor in the storm's fury.
In darkness, we learn to see with different eyes,
To navigate by the compass of our inner truth,
To find strength in vulnerability, and grace in humility,
To understand that even in the night, we are not alone.
So, let your faith shine as a beacon of defiance,
A defiance against despair and the unknown,
And know that in the darkest of hours, you are not faithless,
But a warrior of the night, a bearer of your own dawn.
In fear, a father shuns his child's cold remains,
I scorn him—
A brother's indifference, still untamed,
I scorn him—
A teacher, wise poet, thinker of acclaim,
Who seeks no vengeance for this deadly shame,
I scorn him—
Eight lifeless forms, a solemn row,
Their path in the realm of consciousness lies,
I stand entranced, in eerie throes,
Eight open eyes within slumber's guise,
I awaken with a piercing cry,
Stars call me in the midnight garden's realm,
Delirium grips me, I feel the sky,
I shall be consumed, my senses overwhelmed,
I'll take my life, as my desires dictate,
In desperate act, I shall acquiesce, I admit.
Amid the act of writing this verse,
Upon the wall with charcoal and ink,
With my blood and tears, emotions converse,
The poem takes form, as I deeply think,
In tumultuous engines of feelings unrehearsed,
Upon a face by violence's light, sunk and sink,
With resolute gaze, the words immerse,
The poem emerges, beyond the brink,
"38 and more, what lies with the hand of curse,"
I reject it all, and now I drink
Deep from the chalice of this verse.
Within the icy chamber of lockdown's keep,
Mayna's light of inquiry trembles in the night,
In the court of the perpetrator's sweep,
Within the realm of false teachings' blight,
In the web of oppression, people weep,
Amidst the armed, the unarmed, the fight,
Let the poem's voice awaken from its sleep,
Let it echo against the oppressor's might,
Let Bengal's poets vigilantly reap,
To the festival of revolution, let them take flight,
Let them envelop the city, secrets to keep.
This death valley is not the land I own,
This celebration of killers, I disown,
This vast pyre where lives are thrown,
This blood-soaked slaughterhouse, overthrown,
I will return my homeland's tone,
Within my chest, a fervent tone,
A torch of fire, my body has grown,
I'll carry my country's spirit, brightly shown,
Through every sorrow, love will be sown,
As long as Bengal stands, alone,
As long as human hearts continue to moan.
A thousand watts of light invade the night,
Interrogation's relentless gaze,
I shall not yield to this cruel plight,
My spirit resists, courage displays,
Ice between nails, pain's frosty bite,
I endure, unyielding, amidst the haze,
Bound and bent, blood dripping in fright,
Yet I stand strong, the oppressor's ways,
A burning coal, a brutal rite,
Marks my back, a fiery blaze,
With a stick in my mouth, the pain's fight,
Still I stand, my spirit ablaze,
In the face of terror, no fear in sight,
Poetry resists, my voice conveys,
Armed with truth, in poetry's light,
No submission, my stance stays.
Observe Mayakovski, Hikmet, and Neruda's acclaim,
Their poetic legacy, we haven't forsaken,
Instead, a new epic, we aspire to frame,
Embracing our land, hearts unshaken,
In guerrilla meter, a voice aflame,
Adorned with courage, injustice awakened,
The masses dance, a thunderous claim,
A wild tribe's dance, spirits unshaken,
Red earth, blue sky, a nation's name,
Titas flows, a serpent's fangs awaken,
Death's venom, a deadly game,
A fight for justice, oppression's forsaken,
Dynamism's hurricane, a fierce flame,
Change's engine, no spirit shaken,
Nail and rod, defiance to proclaim,
No fear shall I yield, no submission taken,
The unfamiliar face, fear's empty frame,
When I know, love of justice cannot be shaken.
If they take my life in their cruel hand,
From each corner of Bengal, a spark shall arise,
My obliteration, a stance that stands,
Year after year, against oppression's lies,
Within the earth, the green promise expands,
My destruction is not, my spirit defies,
In happiness and sorrow, across life's sands,
As long as Bengal lives, as long as humanity flies,
I carry my homeland, strong as the land's,
With courage as my guide, to the skies.
Lost in Translation's Veil Poetry, a unity of words in flight, A canvas of emotions, colors so bright, But meanings get lost when to...
