Your tea in the kettle, piping hot water/ No sugar, so that you can really taste the tea on your tongue

This universe’s heart is hollow now for humanity has died inside it.

Spacious, shiny, new roads are built in my city to rent them for raw-markets

The hush of dawn and the whispered breeze,/ that caresses nature's resting face

She stands in front of the canvas and stares.

the moon watches over you, when whales beach themselves, the tides wash them back home; the moon looks down

News from Gaza rips the heart open/ Idlib is burning too

Eurydice, his beloved,  lost to the shades, In the underworld's depths,  where darkness pervades.

Who is the one playing such a plaintive tune on a flute

I cannot, for the life of me, definitively describe what makes music. Growing up in a family where music of any form was not typically paid any reverence, my exposure to it was tunnelled into mainstream pop songs for the longest time.

It is odd that nowadays One seldom hears the words

Tell me what to say when I need to speak, If I have to say something, So what can I say: look at that

Death dwells between is and was, Riding the final particle of a fading breath.

Rumi's spiritual and motivational verses not only empower us to confront life's frustrations and anxieties but also illuminate the path to genuine emotional fulfilment and inner peace.

I once again find myself drawn to "The Waste Land"—though this isn’t about just the one poem, not really—where so much of the old world exists in motifs in a tattered landscape.

Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred

I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding

Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one

The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”. 

And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude