The air is wearing thin,
Into perennial love.
The walls of your milieu crack,
And crumble to bring in eternal joy
And life.
And light, as it falls on a crimson rose.
Its fragrance richer than its red,
cocoons the Earth.
A wave of the ocean forms a circle, as the moon sits on it and invites all Creation.
It’s love, thick as the forest, sweet as honey, precious than measure, in rays of light.
There was never a definition to Happiness.
Gaurav Chakrabarti 