Touching Iron

“Raise your words, not your voice.

It is the rain that grows flowers,

Not thunder.” ( Rumi)


Touching the hot


With fingers:

Some of us learn  about life

Like that-

Burn by burn,

Blister by blister,

One tear at a time

Falling silently.

Others touch  their fingers,

To cool waters

Tip by tip,

Love and friendship,

Trickling down smoothly.

But when water turns ice

Over the years,

It will burn too

When touched.

Skinning your fingers,

Right off.

Those who trained with fire,

Adapts faster in that game then,

And heal faster.


White stood for simplicity

The nuns had preferred white.

Black, for austerity

Sacrifice had worn a black flag.

Green was for normalcy

And blue for the poets;

But red, it enflamed minds

With lust, life and  hope.

That was  probably aeons before.


The palette has

A golden yellow

Of a sun dimming slowly-

Austere, simple, normal, poetic

Red buried deep within,

Shimmering in the ebbing tides

Useful on occasions;


When one has to smile

Or take a bow

Before interested eyes.





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