Ink Stained Pages

Think about the page

Which is stained with ink

It appears as if the words are in a cage

In the winter pink.

Our life is a blank book

With pages of various kinds.

We try to inside it look,

But one is never satisfied with what one finds.

We start to write on the page one

Beautiful stories we spun,

Right from our birth

But slowly the good thoughts seem to be in dearth.

Gradually the ink of greed, lust, anger and jealousy

Made all of us over busy.

It caged our compassion and generosity

And filled our souls with devil curiosity.

Today, I have a question to ask

As for me it’s a mammoth task.

Do love and sympathy really exist?

Or we all have turned into an absolutist?