The village is small; its history is great
The ooze of water might be small but the tank is vast
The age of this tree must be measured in lives
The shadows of it never wipes away to the wind
The severity of agony is unknown
to the measurement of square yards
The iron kites flying in the space
Can never see the row of ants
Times move…
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But for me and the rain
none are there on the road
The street lights
Turning the rain drops into pearls
String them as garlands
The pictures drawn by the streams
Before being caught by the eyes change
The leaves and the drops at bout one-on-one
How can drops win over the leaves?
In the majestic mass-parade
Rajkapoor and Nargis, on the Marindrive,
Heat up…
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jyothivalaboju on మలిన బాష్ప మౌక్తికమ్ము!
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jawaharlal on పక్షుల భాష
బొల్లోజు బాబా on జీవన సౌందర్య సౌరభం – ఇస్మాయిల్ పద్యం.
విలాసాగరం రవీందర్ on కవిత్వం రాయడం కన్నా కవిత్వంగా బతకడమే ఇష్టం: ఇక్బాల్ చంద్