Category Archives: My Son…


My Son,

There is no journey without freedom

You may fly without a wing

You may walk when wings are there

You may cry with songs that sing

You may smile whilst you are in tears…

You may live in living of lone…

You may live to be free from home

You may decide on the rising sun

You may tell tales beneath the moon’ song

You may let go of your love ones…

Is freedom free my son?

Can you feel my tears? –

My tears that is not shed for you

But for the life I fail to live with you

When you are free from herds of here and there…


My son,

Life owes no one pain or gain

We, all owe life our pain, our gain

We make fate, before fate is too late…

Make fate my Son, before fate is too late

Make fate, when fate is your faith!

The more you live your life

The more your life writes you her poems

The more your life writes you 

The more your life is right 

About her poetry book that portrays you…

You make her to make right

In your present plight, as you live…

Living is a poem my Son,

We are all poets of our life…

Think, deep, to reap your reap.

To be continue…

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill



My Son,

Life is a prosaic poem

Decoded by spoken words

Living is a poem

Understood by a tip of sand…

Hmmmm. ..My son,

If my life will be a poem,

Write me poetry

To be read in each poem

Of the multitudes…

Then –

Will I live on what I left undone

For death will surely knock my head

I will knock your certain head

We will all knock death’s head

At the centre of timeless banter!


Except you are of something

Nothing will ever heal you

You may sway athwart by time –

Spend on searching for living

Or will all pros on prosaic poems


Nothing will ever heal you my son

You may be an excerpt of praises

Or the creator of creatures

By one in a million phrases…

Except you excel out of your weakness!


Though you walk on the rage of ocean

Or be the tides of religion

Nothing will ever heal you my son,

Though you puke what was…

Except you except something for all thing!


Nothing, I say these words!

Nothing, my beloved son of my quill

Nothing, see agama nodding his crested head…

Except you are of change you want to see

On this mold… O’ my son!…

(To be continue…)

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill.

MY SON iii

My son,

Be neither of just a star,

For every human is a star

Nor of these shiny stars

For they are common like scars…

Be of shiny sailing stars –

For they are rare, they are wishes.

Be of a good cheers

For you can never overcome the mold°

It moulded you, you need to know.

You only give trial its chance

Before your tribals lead you home…

Be of a rational moon

That gives her light without pain

Though she’s hurt for your gain

She lives on, after your doom°

To be as she used to be in her fane°

Moment might made me making mist

In the clarity of the sunrise,

Be of the sun by getting on your rise

For I will be glad after I see

Through my blurred age of your glee.

I am who you think I am now

I am not who think I am not…

I may be ‘who’ you’ll never think I may be

Till what will be in million ways be

My thousand years after I leave to live…

Hmmm…. (To be continue)​


Hmnnn……..My son,

My body may be shivering

By then, and the vestiges

Laid by me, inspiring…

Lay yours with more prestige.


Though your grandfather

Want living in your father’s feather

So do I; your father, spies

It through your feather’s feather

To fly in trait of our spicies…


O’ my beloved son…

When I get old

By becoming fold,

Unfold me, before the night fall

For fireflies will sing you a song…:


“There are stars

Over your head

Watching you

As you are made of them


There are stars

Can you see them through your eyes?


As you are looking at them…


There are stars

Twinkling in your thought

Bringing all to life

That once die of clouds…


There are stars

Night fog has passed by

Watch and look,

They are shinning at your days ahead…


Choose to be one,

Not all………….” 

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill 


My Son,

When I get old,

When every rhapsody

In me become fold,

Don’t be of my shivering body

Who hold his rod in the cold…

When I get old,

When every flesh of mine

Be of fruitful mold°

Be of your father’s vine

With his heart of gold…

There will be time when

You will need to be yourself

That same time, my old age

May need you to be my self,

Be what you want of adage.

Not of this world 

That tends to worship God

But found worshipping self…

Ask of the same God

When self is not satisfied. 

Hmnn……My son…(to be continue…)

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill