Manu Yadav

“Give the children love, more love and still more love – and the common sense will come by itself.”
― Astrid Lindgren

“A Sunday rain awakes me up today,
Raindrops keeping my sorrows at bay.

Wall around me is now my lockdown friend,
Quarantined me has now learnt to blend.

Found my family that was always at shore,
The lust of wealth is not there anymore.

The loyal companion that is my pet,
Always keeps me cheerful and buoyant.

With the sky so blue and air so clear,
My crony birds singing I can now hear.

And though last but never the least,
My pen, my text, reappears to feast.

Happiness is always there with us right,
In darkness we see that hides in light!”
― Mukesh Kwatra

“Just a tiny little pain,
Three days of heavy rain,
Three days of sunlight,
Everything will be alright,
Just a tiny little pain.”
― Antonia Michaelis, The Storyteller

“My child, I know you're not a child
But I still see you running wild
Between those flowering trees.
Your sparkling dreams, your silver laugh
Your wishes to the stars above
Are just my memories.

And in your eyes the ocean
And in your eyes the sea
The waters frozen over
With your longing to be free.

Yesterday you'd awoken
To a world incredibly old.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.

You had to kill this child, I know.
To break the arrows and the bow
To shed your skin and change.
The trees are flowering no more
There's blood upon the tiles floor
This place is dark and strange.

I see you standing in the storm
Holding the curse of youth
Each of you with your story
Each of you with your truth.

Some words will never be spoken
Some stories will never be told.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.

I didn't say the world was good.
I hoped by now you understood
Why I could never lie.
I didn't promise you a thing.
Don't ask my wintervoice for spring
Just spread your wings and fly.

Though in the hidden garden
Down by the green green lane
The plant of love grows next to
The tree of hate and pain.

So take my tears as a token.
They'll keep you warm in the cold.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.

You've lived too long among us
To leave without a trace
You've lived too short to understand
A thing about this place.

Some of you just sit there smoking
And some are already sold.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.
This is the age you are broken or turned into gold.”
― Antonia Michaelis, The Storyteller