Sketch of my daughter Vaani © Manan sheel

Vaani is asleep,
She is in her world,
And I must not make noise,
I should draw her in soft tones,
for even a noisy emotion is a noise,
when a bud is asleep…

Sunlight kisses her cheek in silence,
A gift she is to all nature,
Sometimes a sparrow peeks into her room to have a look at her soft, round face,
Leaves are teasing the sunlight by coming in way between it and her face, for friends often celebrate each others' good fortune…

When I look at her face, her inner world in which she is lost, asks me to return to it,
and a sweet mystery which is familiar and intimate, at once near and distant, envelopes me…

© Manan sheel

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Vaani — when one day old — my sketch

That powdery fragrance
when I kiss you
when you are
in my arms —
I imagine its essence
when I see your
face on the
video call —
my mind, then,
is playing a game
with my sense of smell —
its perception moves
from the realm of the usual
to the realm of the real —
to the realm of dreams —
to the meditation of children —
to the place where I once was —
that has opened up again
like a treasure chest opens up
in a story, when two
magical puzzles meet —
Similarly, my mind has met
its other puzzle piece in you,
that had been lost since
I was as little as you —
my little bundle of joy,
my little Vaani…

© Manan sheel.

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Photo by Loren Joseph on Unsplash

That pleading old woman
at the red light crossing –
a few coins being all her life
in that moment

Look at her pleading –
In a museum of highly respected art,
people would have seen the same scene
and wondered about her beauty

Oh, how her moist eyes plead,
How dense the network of creases on her face –
Rivers on the map of an anonymous country!

How at night, the white light from a car
is seen through her flowing cream-colored Saree,
as if moonlight is making a space
of windy dance in the clouds…

People see art only at the museums –
Maybe the reality of life
makes them escape the beauty
of everywhere, present every moment…

© Manan sheel.

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Photo by Lucas Kapla on Unsplash

When they stop
showing the films I love,
I will watch the play of colors
in a butterfly’s wings

When they stop
making the songs I love,
I will listen to the call of the cuckoo
to her mate

When they stop
talking in my language,
and when all their words
sound foreign to me,
I will talk to the silence
of this sky

When they stop
being as they were born
to be, I will love that hidden part
of them that although little,
still exists

When they follow
the hatred, and harm
the innocent,
I will take up my sword
and fight till my last,
against them,
each one of them…

© Manan sheel.

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Adjust me here,

Cut me there,

Trim me here,

Push me there,

Make me like the masses,

Make me a part of the crowd,

Ask me then, who am I?

A thing sans life,

A God not alive!

PS: Be like the soul’lone creature… special

© Manan sheel.

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manan sheel

an artist, poet, singer and engineer. trying to introduce heart into the world of mind.