Life has become so colourless
I wanna escape,
but where?
Once had a life like a butterfly
so free, so careless, so colourful
and used to fly.
Now when I count the fleeting hours
get so baffled
that my writing pen stops suddenly
and I feel benumbed looking at the sky.
Life has its own meaning for everyone;
but exactly what it means
can anyone tell?
Uncountable vague answers
like perplexing riddles.
The right answer nobody knows
still life goes.
No longer I find the true spirit of life,
is there anything called true spirit
or just a lexical word
for which I thrive?
Feeling so lifeless
though still alive,
when I go to my balcony
in order to have refreshing air
nothing but the sorrow I smell
still our lives go.
Where to seek a drop of happiness
with which my life can be replenished;
I never wish a bunch of happiness
because it's merely a frenetic will
for which I walk mile after mile,
at last nothing but sorrow
our lives still go.
