Starts in the morning, With calm winds blowing.

Birds are chirping, And the sun is glowing.

Up in the sky, The planes fly high.

Down below, It’s hot or snow.

Sometimes it rains, Which captures the frame.

Kids going to school, And teenagers acting cool.

Mom and dad go to office, And their parents believe in prophets.

Someone gets a train, To explore what remains.

A street artist plays guitar, And the theatre gives yet another rising star.

And happy plucks flowers, While frustrated jumps from another tower.

The newly weds are walking, While someone drops into another coffin.

Babies are crying, While the politicians are spying.

Doctors are trying, And armies occupying.

With so much sighing, The sun starts dying.

The moonlight’s ominous, And the streets bustle in the metropolis.

People have dinner, And someone becomes a sinner.

It’s time for bed, And the farmer shuts his shed.

It all goes silent, And sleeps the violence.

But that’s not the end, As it all begins again.

People wonder if they have another choice?

But that’s the beauty of it, it’s called the circle of life.





London, 2016, It’s the middle of the night,

Me and my friends go out on the streets in the dead dreary night.

It’s snowing heavily and the streets are covered in mist,

From the corner of our eye we see a kiosk covered with lights.

We walk towards it with curiosity in our eyes,

And to our surprise the guy was selling chai.

With shivering cold rushing through our bones,

We ordered a glass each to make us feel close to our homes.

After the first sip we cringed and looked,

As everyone was disappointed with how awfully it was cooked.

We laughed about it later when we had chai in our usual place,

Discussing how thousands of miles gave it an average taste.