My Poems

To Be and Not to Be To be or not to be, the question. To be and not to be, the answer. Between these two thoughts stands the restless human mind, weighing life with fear, measuring death with doubt, searching for certainty where none was meant to exist. Hamlet stands there still, thinking himself into silence, trapped between action and retreat, afraid of the world, afraid of what lies beyond it. He asks if it is nobler to suffer or to end the suffering. But the question itself binds him, for it assumes that being and non-being are enemies. Elsewhere, on another battlefield, a man stands trembling in the same way. Arjuna lowers his bow. His heart shakes. His mind collapses under duty and grief. And yet, beside him, a quieter voice rises. Not a command. Not a judgment. A remembrance. “The soul is never born, nor does it die. It has never been, and will never cease to be. Unborn, eternal, everlasting— it is not destroyed when the body falls.” And suddenly, death loses its terror. Not bec...

From the smallest particle to the farthest turning galaxy, the universe follows one quiet rule: nothing moves in a straight line forever. Everything turns, returns, renews. What we call progress only appears linear because we stand in one place. Step back, and the pattern reveals itself— a vast circle moving through matter, through life, through awareness itself. Science sees this without poetry. Energy is never destroyed. A flame does not disappear; it becomes heat, light, ash. A fallen tree does not end; it becomes soil, nourishment, new growth. Nothing is lost. Everything changes form. The stars speak this truth on a grand scale. Within their burning hearts, elements are forged. When their fire is spent, they collapse and scatter themselves across the dark. From that dust arise new stars, new worlds, new lives. The iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones, once lived inside ancient suns. On Earth the same rhythm breathes quietly. Water rises, falls, returns. Carbon moves from air...

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind of strife,  Thy gusts are not so fierce, so wild,  As feignèd friends who turn and rifle  Through hearts they vowed to guard, beguiled.  Yet true roots hold through winter's bite—  A spat, a silence, shadows brief—  Not feigning's mask that flees from light,  But honest mending, beyond belief.  Heigh-ho! The real ones rise anew,  From hiccups short, their tempests past;  While false ones fade like morning dew—  True friendship's forge, forever cast.