Confession

As spring comes in the corridor of winter,

She asks him “Your time is up, so leave now”.

Likewise when one man separates from another

One person's wish, desire come across

Another person's hope, aspiration.

Before leaving, while tying his laces

He looks for the last time, his room, his garden

And then silently drops from the scene.

Was he able carry in his backpack,

The deluge of monsoon, the light of fireflies?

Can he take all his dreams, desires, promises,

All in his backpack? 

As he moves far and far away,

He empties whatever he has carried from his world.

The only thing that keeps his bag heavy

Like dark monsoon cloud -

Is the love that is not confessed!