निगाहें उठीं तो उसकी नज़र से,
मासूमियत का एक ख़्वाब सा उतर आया...
उसे देखा तो लगा जैसे,
दिल को फिर से प्यार करना आ गया।
उसकी आँखों में वो सादगी थी,
जैसे सुबह की पहली किरण हो...
उसकी मुस्कान में वो जादू था,
जैसे सूखे दिल पर सावन बरस गया हो।
न जाने कैसी कशिश थी उसमें,
जो लफ़्ज़ों से बयान न हो पाई...
बस एक पल उसे देखा और,
ज़िंदगी में एक और मोहब्बत आ गई।
— कवयित्री: मायंग्लंबम मरीना लैमारेम्बी
Those restless wings of the chariot
Settle along the coastlines of the western winds.
The charioteer speaks without restraint,
While the black horse leans towards its pale white companion.
Dichotomy rides upon its unstoppable wagon,
Defining light and speed beyond the mind’s illusions.
Drifting beside the raging rivers,
The waves ashore prepare for a mighty awakening.
“Sorry,” whispered the white one,
Its tail adorned with a silver-lined vine,
Embracing the overflowing tides
Upon the silent shore.
— Mayanglambam Merina Leimarenbi
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
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
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
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
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.
