The Invalid Lottery Ticket

 The Invalid Lottery Ticket

He kept it safe inside an old wooden drawer,

A little paper carrying a dream;

A thousand hopes he had whispered before,

A golden boat upon a distant stream.

He held it like a promise from the skies,

A doorway to a life he longed to see;

A future painted bright before his eyes,

A world where he could finally be free.

But time revealed what fate had always known —

The numbers faded, the ticket lost its claim;

A worthless piece of paper left alone,

Yet still it carried years of hope and flame.

Perhaps the ticket never held the prize;

Perhaps the treasure lived within his eyes.

For dreams are not always meant to be won,

Some simply teach us how to walk toward dawn.

And even an invalid piece of time

Can hold a lifetime's unfinished rhyme.

The Poet Who Chose to Become a Poem(1)

 The Poet Who Chose to Become a Poem

He spent his life

collecting the whispers of the world —

the cry of rivers,

the silence of mountains,

the untold stories

resting inside ordinary hearts.

He searched for words

that could hold the weight of existence,

but one day he realised

words were too small

to contain the ocean within him.

So he stopped writing about the rain

and became a cloud;

stopped singing about love

and became the heartbeat;

stopped describing the wounds of time

and became a scar that remembered.

The poet buried his pen

beneath the soil of his own being

and allowed life itself

to write upon him.

His joys became verses,

his sorrows became metaphors,

his footsteps became lines

on the endless manuscript of earth.

People asked,

“Where are your poems?”

The wind replied,

“Look at him —

he no longer writes poems.

He has become one.”

And when the poet finally vanished,

the world did not lose a voice;

it gained a silence

that could be read forever.

The Poet Who Chose to Become a Poem

 The Poet Who Chose to Become a Poem

He wrote of stars that trembled in the night,

Of rivers carrying forgotten dreams;

He carved the silence into words of light,

And painted truth upon the world's extremes.

Yet one day, weary of the written page,

He sought a verse no mortal hand could frame;

To leave behind not ink upon an age,

But breathe forever as a living name.

He gave his laughter to the morning skies,

His tears became the rain on barren ground;

His wounds became the songs of lullabies,

His footsteps turned to verses all around.

And when his voice was lost beyond the sea,

The world read on — the poem he chose to be.

The Wisdom of the Vanishing Steam

 The Wisdom of the Vanishing Steam

From the old Tangkhul pot,

the green tea breathes its first prayer —

curly threads of steam rising,

dancing with the invisible winds,

swinging freely,

unaware that every movement

is a journey towards disappearance.

The mist does not mourn its ending;

it simply becomes the air,

leaving behind a fragrance

that speaks of earth, rain, and roots.

The old man pours the quiet memories

into his weathered tumbler,

sip by sip,

as if tasting the years

hidden inside every drop.

His wrinkled eyes become a doorway,

where forgotten seasons return —

By : Mayanglambam Merina Leimarenbi

childhood paths, lost voices,

and moments buried beneath time

walk again in silence.

Perhaps life is nothing but this —

a warm cup held between fragile hands,

a little steam that rises and fades,

and a fragrance we leave behind

after we are gone.

Ravana

 Ravana

The Man Beyond the Ten Heads

A man of brilliance, of laughter and pride,

With ten restless heads standing side by side;

Yet he wandered in search of something more,

Chasing the shadows that lived at his core.

He sought out talents, he measured each flame,

For he feared another might rise beyond his name.

A mind full of wisdom, of knowledge untold,

Yet a storm of envy turned his heart cold.

At times he questioned the strength he possessed,

The dreams he carried, the fire in his chest;

A golden ladder he wished to ascend,

To touch the skies where his desires end.

A master of vidyas, a creator of thought,

With treasures of learning that many had sought;

But jealousy whispered, and pride took control,

Slowly darkening the light of his soul.

I once asked him beneath the silent night,

“Why do you chase what fades from your sight?”

He answered, with a voice both heavy and true:

“Never let jealousy become part of you.

Never crave endlessly for what is not your own;

For those paths may take you far away—

To a place where your own self is unknown.”

By Mayanglambam Meerina Leimarenbi 

Ravan

 Ravan..

A man of joy and profound ten heads..
searching for more heads to destroy..
He hunts for talents,
Can't stand anyone greater than him.

At time he doubts his own ability
to work and fulfill his dreams,
a dream, with a golden ladder
for him to climb..

A man with various vidyas,
creative mind, yet jealousy took his side,
wanting to make her and others in his line.
Why did he crave for more?
Why did he provoke others?

When I interviewed him , this were his words
"never feel jealous.. never want more"
This two things would lead you no where but would lead to somewhere where we never belong....

By : Mayanglambam Meerina Leimarenbi

Green tea....

Curly steam dancing from the hot Tangkhul pot
Moving up without hasitation

it dances and swings along with the air
not knowing its nearing to end

Alas! it went off
but left its earthy fragrance...

thn the old man pour it in an old tumbler
he sips one after another

and watches his memory playing
vivid before his wrinkle eyes..