Poetry

Beauty and the Beast

Beauty and the Beast In an old English manor, cold‑stone walls whisper tales, A beauty fair as spring, with courage bright and still, While in the shadowed corridors, a beast with heart that

Fail Safe

In the quiet rooms of the Ministry of Defence where the hum of servers is the only sound, there sits a small brass panel, a silent guardian. Its button, part of a white‑capped

Roost

A Quiet Roost In the golden hush of a late‑afternoon, when the wind hums through oak leaves, a robin finds its roost – a snug nest tucked in a hollow branch, lined with the

Gandhi

The Quiet Flame In the dusty streets of Porbandar he crossed the tide, No trident, no banner—just a boy, a quiet pride. His thoughts like candle‑whispers rose above the sound, In every syllable of

Groundhog Day

Groundhog Day – a British‑scented waltz On a damp March morning, in the rural countryside of Punxsutawney, the village folk pull aloft trams of paper and pretzels, as if the day

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