Saturday, 28 May 2011


Sometimes I wonder, what is a bubble?
Its so beautiful, but yet so humble.

It is a perfect cute little sphere,
Causes no one no fear.

It barely lasts more than a minute,
Yet watching it gives us, a joy infinite.

All seven colours of the rainbow converge
Upon the bubble as if it’s a mirage.

It bursts in a second, yet the image lingers.
Leaves a moist imprint, on our fingers.

At times my dreams are a little like the bubbles.
They are beautiful, but not so humble.

Both are ruined in a matter of minutes,
And the joy both give knows no limits.

Dreams, like bubbles, have colours in plenty,
And the good things in a dream are also not scanty.

The bubbles, when punctured, leave a moist mark,
But the dream, when ruptured, causes our minds to go dark.

The agony of a broken dream is unlike any other pain.
The effect is so horrible, as if cutting a vein.

Most times, my dreams are broken.
And so is my mind vigorously shaken.

But my heart is an idiot, for never does it learn.
In spite of everything, it continues to yearn.

It never loses hope, never ceases to dream.
It creates its own world, an impossible realm.

But who am I to blame the heart?
Its doing what it should, just playing its part.

I make bubbles, knowing all of them will burst,
So you decide, whom should I blame first?

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