By Chhaya Giri
Dear wind,
Won't you move me like you move the branches of the willow tree?
Let me feel as light as the petals you set free.
Flying over the mountains, the desserts and the vast blue seas.
Dear wind,
Won't you make me, let go, of me?
By Chhaya Giri
By Diya Sood To touch a soul. What must it feel like? It seems like some are tainted. Twisted. Tortured. Agonized, even. When does it end? I'm no master. Not a sculptor, most definitely. No Michelange
By Diya Sood Misfit. Bohemian. Who art thou fleeing away from? Everything is dreary But aren't you on your way to glory? Haven't you got some time to spare? Growing older every day. Children shouldn't