I was five and he was six
We rode on horses made of sticks
He wore black and I wore white
He would always win the fight
Bang bang
He shot me down, bang bang
I hit the ground , bang bang
That awful sound, bang bang
My baby shot me down
Seasons came and changed the time
When I grew up,
I called him mine
He would always laugh and say
Remember when we used to play
Bang bang I shot you down,
bang bang You hit the ground ,
bang bang That awful sound,
bang bang
I used to shoot you down...
Music played and people sang
Just for me the church bells rang
Now he's gone
I don't know why
And till this day some times I cry
He didn't even say goodbye
He didn't take the time to lie
Bang bang He shot me down,
bang bang I hit the ground ,
bang bang
That awful sound,
bang bang My baby shot me down. ..
a beautiful song by nancy sinatra:)
Workshop 19.10.2010
So this time for the college annual event,i opted for the poetry workshop.The difficult part was that we had to write about our site visit(housing being the theme) in the form of verbal imageries.A difficult task as it was,we were initially asked to write a poem about our sense of belonging or what we would like to call home..this made me write(i'd say literally forced me:P,lol)to write about books,an object with which i could really identify my home!
On the shelves,over the tables
wide open,face down.
From a series of World books to the perpetual collection of Classics
Walls after walls,the varied colours and proportion of books form a mural
Each book with it's own personality,
Each one having a different story to tell,
Each one taking you to different places with different faces.
Each author having his innermost thoughts to share.
The hardbound cover reveals nothing about the essence of the book,
until you turn the pages over,the fragrance determining the meticulousness with which the
book has been used.
The creases formed by repeatedly folding them being a familiar place..
A bookmark being obsoleteand hence kept away.
The many journals that have been penned half way through
Their sudden discovery and intoxicating smell of ink tantalizes you to resume again..
Books are recorded form of memories
The association with each creates the varied fragments of where i belong..
-sreya
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
On the shelves,over the tables
wide open,face down.
From a series of World books to the perpetual collection of Classics
Walls after walls,the varied colours and proportion of books form a mural
Each book with it's own personality,
Each one having a different story to tell,
Each one taking you to different places with different faces.
Each author having his innermost thoughts to share.
The hardbound cover reveals nothing about the essence of the book,
until you turn the pages over,the fragrance determining the meticulousness with which the
book has been used.
The creases formed by repeatedly folding them being a familiar place..
A bookmark being obsoleteand hence kept away.
The many journals that have been penned half way through
Their sudden discovery and intoxicating smell of ink tantalizes you to resume again..
Books are recorded form of memories
The association with each creates the varied fragments of where i belong..
-sreya
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
