Aryan Singh's World

Data Science, Statistics, ML, Deep Learning

Choir Of Dreams

There is a land of motley musings,
Beyond the horizon where clouds float.

It houses the adobe of fluttering dreams,
Where the mind goes for its nightly stroll.

While on its excursion through the dim and lit halls,
It discovers a canvas in the stream of thoughts.

Some faces flash on and off, most known yet some unknown,
Some look at me with a kind gaze, while others with a vicious smirk.

Sometimes there is a resolute knight, fighting the dismaying desolation of war,
Sometimes appears a crumbling prisoner consuming itself in the guilt’s core.

Sometimes I meet a scared child looking for the familiar touch of care,
And some nights it is an apparition, threatening to tear my soul with a spare.

Somedays the visual of a cheering crowd coddling over every move of mine,
Sometimes its a story of severe strife that behooves me to struggle against that plight.

Every night when I close my eyes in this world of mortal scenes,
The mind opens a cornucopia to the choir of my dreams.

Roar of the warrior within

Come fight a little in the cradle of this burning log,
Come fight a little to right what’s wrong.

Don’t supress the voice that vanquishes the swines,
Oh come hither with your wrath, run fear down their spines.

Tear down the protection of that seed coat,
Within the storms let the fleet float.

For you are the master of the universe beats,
You are the fire that the dragon breathes.

Let them see the flare of that supressed flame,
Let them know who is running the end game.

Fight to last breath come what may,
Let them know to whom the legends pray.

An ode to the traveller

Again he saunters into the boulevard of life,

Tired, Disheveled, the wear of sojourn arching his back.

But his thirst is ravenous, the hunger insatiable,

The hunger to win, the hunger to strive, it fuels the senses, fires the drive

As he flings away the baggage of foes, packs the sac with words of wise

His fervour becons with excitement of uncharted lands, In his eyes the crimson of pluck gallores

For at heart he is but a traveller, his life a procession of uncharted dreams

And again he augurs on another path, a path more perilous, a path more beguile,

Oh! he is all but an undaunted soul, For He would die on the road than at home lie.

Tufts Of Separation

Why does life hum the tunes of melancholy
Why does the heart struggles to beat,
Is it the season of torrential stroms that seems to be on its vermin retreat.

For the tufts of separation are like a wilderbeast
Drawing soul out of life one breadth a time,
Such a crushing penance for such a small crime.

Come back to thy love oh wandering soul, for without your touch i cannot survive,
I will be waiting with my arms open, for your embrace to make me feel alive.

A Midspring Dream

Within the void were the seeds of ectasy, shrivelled yet hopeful for your angelic touch,

The autumn was long, for fear it laid to the spirits of love.. ahh a separation far too long

Then came the winds of the mid-spring blossom with a girl whose smile just made the hearts melt

The long night started to make way, for the light had just cast its magic

The seeds sprouted with a fresh fervour, her nurturing love making the buds grow.

The beauty of that second was worth a million years for the joy in her eyes was the ultimate bliss.

Is this love temporary like all things in life, for the dark winter one day is inevitable.

But what’s life without a sprinkle of magic, for one day the winds will again rise, hustling away the clouds of despair.

One day we will love again, like a phoenix from our ashes we will again rise…