We are inviting submission for April issue, 2024 (Vol. 5, No. 1). For more details, visit the section "Call for Paper" on our official website.




-          Amit Pandey

The night is mildly cold, winter in the threshold.

The warm wind of the former disappeared, and nothing to hold.

The clock is tired; time is sleeping.

Eyes are closed, drops of water dripping.

She breathes a soothing air, I a toxic.

The gaze is happy with others’ eyes-these are hectic.


Nightingale is accursed tonight, losing the melody.

Boons are physic to the lover’s malady.

Selfies are collage now, fragmenting the crews.

Picasso is dying today; the colors lose hues.

The cradle is empty now; someone is in the tomb.

Things are falling apart; before in the womb.

Tender hands and her loving touch crawling towards separation.

Memories and feelings are dying together of no operation.


The night is quite cold,

Winter is differently bold.

Lips are close together; warmth is lost.

The sky is not starry; how to boast?

The harshness of tranquility defames the night.

He suffers the delicacy invisible in the light.


Gloomy, the streets busy the walls.

Unhappy, the lampposts and darkness dull.

The furrows in the middle and the fields are aging.

Sea tides got embarrassed, the dwellers retreating.