The Cemetary

And there, nigh upon the river bank, lay the two burial grounds: one where the graves were marked by marble tombstones with the names neatly etched upon them and pretty flowers grew in well-trimmed neat rows, reinforcing the sanctity and solemnity of death of those who had the money to spare to be buried in a rich manner as that which suits the ones of noble birth.

The other one which bore no boundaries except for those shrubs and small trees that grew wildly at will and in no particular order, stretching to where to where opportunities lay and defiling themselves in a crude, unorganized manner, for they reflected no beauty of any sorts, as the one that befits those who lay buried in them, nameless and deprived in death as they were in life.

Melancholy remains of the past

Like the lost pages of an old chapter in my book of memories, the past disappears,
Slowly withering away, with the faded lines and yellowed surface.
Bits of joy strewn upon the lives that lay far apart upon those pages,
Are now blotted like the stray droplets of ink upon the leaves of my book,
And not a moment of idleness walks past me now,
Without a tinge of grief, upon the loss of the past
Even as new stories are being written incessantly.