When I write.
When I write,
I wish to paint.
When I paint,
With a pencil. Or a sketch pen,
On office blank memo's,
I wish to capture.
When I photograph,
With a click of my index finger,
I wish to write you in celluloid.
Why is my why linked to you?
Why do you form the centre of my gravity.
Gravity of consciousness,
Of dawns and dusks,
Husky, yet wheatish,
Like the shrubs that abandon,
In wanton gay,
The soils of my land.
Hardik Mahesh Vaidya.
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