Standing Tall against the wind

  

Those binary fragments, scattered and torn,

Divide the hearts that once were one;

While hesitant words, from silent throats,

Rise like shadows beneath the sun.

Some voices echo, some disappear,

Half-received, half-buried in the night;

We lose ourselves in endless numbers,

In statistics stripped of human light.

How long shall we wander, seeking the core,

Of truths left trembling behind closed doors?

With unfinished dreams between four walls,

And unanswered cries upon our floors.

Do you not dream of the endless blue,

The sky that shelters me and you?

For beneath its vast and timeless breath,

We remain until our final step.

Our fleeting likes shall fade away,

But what we choose shall forever stay.

Mayanglambam Merina Leimarenbi

Her Unspoken words

  

She stood beside the window, still and lone,

While evening winds carried her silent dreams;

Her thoughts wandered where the soft clouds had flown,

Across the valley washed in fading beams.

She watched the dusky meadows softly sway,

The green hills resting under twilight's grace;

A little bird then crossed her quiet way,

And brushed her hands with wings of tender lace.

It whispered secrets only hearts could know,

A language hidden far beyond the skies;

A gentle smile began its quiet glow,

From depths of soul and blossomed through her eyes.

Another bird arrived from mountains blue,

It took her love — and both the creatures flew.

Mayanglambam Merina Leimarenbi

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