A Journey

A journey, however small, is a wonderful thing. It means you have a destination. A goal to achieve. And along the way, the easy path or the rough path, you learn to survive whatever bumps the road throws at you. To reach your destination is the culmination of your current journey, but it is also the beginning of a new one. Some people, when I see them, fill me with wonder because of the arduous journeys they have undertaken and survived. They and the world around them are richer for the experience, for their eyes that have seen and ears that have heard a thousand things, some plain, some plain unbelievable. 
Words cannot express the anguish of a bedridden man, who once roamed the world in search of the next big adventure. Words too cannot express the longing of the man who has never stepped out of his bubble to touch and feel the world outside what he knows of his bubble, yet dreams of fervently every night in vivid color.
Such is the power of the journey undertaken, the new roads travelled, the joy of discovery and the glee of return that eons have passed, yet man is still somewhere a nomad inside. For some, the gush of a waterfall, the quiet hush of a meadow's lush green landscape, the gurgling brooks and streams and crickets and frogs are what constitute a getaway. For others, the spires of a church, new people, honking cars, and an insatiable thirst for exploring a new city is a palliative. For me, its a combination of the two.
And at the end of many a journey, the familiar smells of our home, the springy bed, the home cooked food, and the people who await us are what makes the journey worth completing. Before we set off the next day, trying to quench our thirst for the next big adventure that starts off a new journey....

how do they see

Some people, they see poetry,
everywhere they turn their heads
A flower, a seed, a banyan tree
In swirling seas, in river beds...

In the color of streetlights, row upon row
In the burning tail of a firefly, so yellow
In reds, and greens and violets also
Of everyday objects, and in a rainbow

The birds, the fish,with a plumage hue
Of every known color, against the color blue
There is a poem hidden,  I dont know how
But these people see it & they make you go wow!

I wish I had it in me, the ability to rhyme
The words to describe a scene, To create
In words, those strokes that paint in time,
A timeless picture, my hunger to sate

Yet, such art, it is beyond me,
how some people see
Such lyrical magic, such poetry
In every rock and pebble, 'tis a mystery...

An Ode to my Wife

I see through my eyes,that lovely look she gives

A little glimmer of joy,a little fun, it makes me wanna live

Each day henceforth, towards making her smile

Towards holding her tightly, in my arms all the while...

That happiness in her laughter, which melts me in a flash

That infectious little mischief, inherent, yet a surprise

And I know, I've fallen for her, hard, like I was in a crash

And yet I love the feeling, with every passing sunrise...

My wife, my lovely wife, what a treasure to behold

In sickness and in health, till we both grow very old

I sit here and ruminate, on my blessings tonight,

And I wonder, what more can I do, to bring her some delight...

Yes, A poem, she had asked of me, for her, this night

A lyrical ode, to the love of my life, I must now recite,

What words do I say to her, she means so much to me

Would "I love you" suffice for my lovely lady?

Eye Spy

His hands felt feverish, as they gripped the cold steel of the door handle with less assurance than he felt comfortable with.
This wasn’t the first time he was on a late night lookout mission, waiting in stinking damp cars, looking for a clue to unraveling the mysteries of the universe, as he liked to think of it.
“Eye Spy, Inc.” he thought. “Nah, not snazzy enough”, He was trying to come up with more innovative names for his upcoming detective agency. He had high hopes of coming up with a suitable name by the end of the week. It was only Tuesday, he re-assured himself. There was always time.
He had been asked to investigate, with some measure of disbelief, the strange sounds and sights witnessed at No. 24, Brickview Lane, his neighborhood.
There were some unearthly sounds reported, at all odd ghostly hours, and the colony children had wasted no time in spinning yards of seeing ghouls, marauders, and blood-curdling screams along with a rivulet of blood seen regularly. Maybe it was maple syrup. Maybe not. Nobody dared to find out, until now.
It was late, around 1 AM, and the deathly quiet lane was bursting with the sights and sounds that only a rural suburban community lane would throw up at that hour. Crickets were chirping, Cats were yowling, dogs were howling, there was general mayhem in the animal world.
Al, as Alexander Gibbs was called by everyone, was keeping his place behind the bushes of No. 24 with a pair of binoculars for company, and leather gloves to fend off the crisp cold. The slowly falling fiery leaves in fall did nothing to muffle his steps as they rustled and bristled, complaining loudly about his uninvited intrusion into their world.
He had heard a small whispering, wheezing sound somewhere at the back of the house. As adrenaline pumped through him, he rose and walked on the path leading to the back entrance. The netted back door was slightly ajar.
He debated on whether he needed to risk life, limb and everything else even before his fledgling detective agency had started off. Maybe it was worth the publicity it might generate. Maybe he might even get some sponsorship money, with all the interviews that people would want to take.
A slight puff of wind stole through his bomber jacket, pushing the cold breeze down his spine, making him shudder involuntarily.
“Well, screw everything, and here goes nothing” he thought as he pushed open the door, and stepped into another world.
There was dust, everywhere. It was on the walls, it was on the furniture, and of course all through the floor.
It was like a living, breathing film of substance, all pervasive, omnipresent. He suddenly felt a great sense of respect for Mrs. Burns, his housekeeper. He felt even more greatly for his vacuum cleaner.
He had a pen-flashlight with him that he now proceeded to fish out from the depths of his pockets and switch on. The first thing he saw was the blood on the floor. His own blood froze, and not because of the cold. The lack of heating in the house suddenly became evident.
The blood stains were fresh. It looked like the victim had been dragged from near the mantelpiece, right down to the kitchen. He suddenly wished he had his gun with him. He immediately doused his light, lest the murderer see him.
He looked around for a telephone, but all he found was an ancient rotary dial phone, with its wires hanging limply by the side. That meant he couldn’t call the police. He checked his cellphone. No reception. Perhaps this really was a spooky place, and he had no right to be here.
But he had a job to do, and he pressed on, resolutely.
He walked slowly into the kitchen on tiptoe. As he did so, he stubbed his toe on a coffee table that had decided to materialize out of nowhere. He fell. He stifled his scream of agony, not wanting to make it the last sound he would ever make.
As he lay there on the floor, covered in ancient dust and grime, he found that he was now facing the kitchen directly.
There were three pairs of glowing eyes, staring at him. And the dead victim lay in the center of the circle formed by the three murderers. It looked like they were licking their lips in anticipation.
He could make out their footprints in the dust. Perhaps, he shouldn’t have become a detective, he thought.
Less than a minute later, anyone standing outside the house would have seen a flash of light going off inside, like lightning. Unfortunately, there was nobody there.
“Mrs. Rosemary, I am terribly sorry for your loss” said a small voice at the doorstep of No. 25, Brickview Lane.
“That’s ok dear, that’s ok….” said a sniffling Mrs. Rosemary.
Then she held up a five dollar note, and gave it to the twelve year old, red haired boy in front of her.
“Here you go Al, it was very nice of you to investigate his death. I imagine you gave those stupid cats a terrible fright, eh?” she chuckled a bit.
She looked at the photograph of her favourite guinea pig, Bob. Mangled, innards spilling out, surrounded by those dreadful cats owned by Mrs. Gibson of No 22. She wondered how he even got them to pose this way for the scene. Very CSI…
Mrs. Gibson would pay dearly.
“Yes ma’am, I did. They were very scared. But they’ll be back. But I’ll be waiting…” he said.
“Al’s Intelligence Gathering & Investigative Services”, he thought as he skipped down the steps, on his way back home… “Nah, the acronym is kinda funny…”

Butterflies

Butterflies

What you want, and what you get...
Are worlds apart, and yet
some day, the horizon must meet,
And that will be a monumental feat..

Of existence, of tolerance, of strength
Of man, to endure, but one more day
To walk this earth, from length to length,
And make for himself, an undiscovered way

There are dreams unexplained, yet recurring still
Of Gold, and treasures, and a flag on the hill
Of so many roads to walk, yet unknown
of skies, unexplored, not yet flown...

There must come the day, just yonder, it will,
It must, it must, I know it must come soon,
When bugles sound out, the war cry, so shrill
The day when the butterfly, breaks out of the cocoon...

A Rainy Day

It was raining hard. Cats and dogs. He could see the huge droplets smashing
against the etched glass, trying their hardest to break it.

He was wearing a mackintosh over his suit, and he was dripping copious amounts
of water all over the aisle down to the altar. It felt like the church he was in, St.
Sebastian Church, had an aisle almost a mile long as he squished his sodden
gumboots all the way to the confession box.

He tried to admire the wooden lattice-work on the door but found that he
couldn’t focus clearly on any one single pattern. Maybe it was the foggy glasses
he wore. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his silk tie.

It felt sacrilegious to be wearing boots and all inside, but he wasn’t here to pray.
He didn’t even believe in the existence of an Almighty God. He was here to do a
job, and that was it. He opened the door, and slipped inside. There was a single
stool there with a leather seat cushion. Under the stool base, was strapped a
Glock 9mm as he had been told when he had received his explicit instructions.

He felt around for it, and pulled it free of the scotch tape adhesive. There was a
silencer hidden somewhere, he knew. He sat on the cushioned seat, but it felt a
bit wobbly. The right side rear leg was a bit off, so he picked it up and turned it
over. Under the leg was screwed on the silencer, fully camouflaged in a grained
woody color. He slowly screwed it on, all the while looking out through the small
window, at the emptiness of the church hall.

And then he waited for his prey to arrive.

It felt like the vapour had formed into an image, as he looked at the door. One
moment there was rain, and suddenly there was a man. It was one of those classic
noir movie scenes, a handsome man wearing a hat and a coat draped over his
arm, arriving from the rain into shelter, in a church, looking around with a
strangely pale expression on his face. All it needed was an alto voice, and an
orchestra to provide the background music.

The stained glass etchings seemed to know him, as they followed his every step,
their blue and green eyes on his steel gray suit, waiting for something to happen.

The man stopped three rows from the back and stepped into one of the rows of seats on the right, eyes locked onto the marble statue of Mother Mary cradling Jesus. He knelt, his shoes coming off, and began to pray wordlessly with eyes closed, lips moving silently.

All this while, the assassin had his eyes locked onto his prey. He wondered if he would need to leave the safety of the box, or would the range of the Glock make it necessary for him to be at close quarters to finish the job. No matter, his prey would come into the box, he was told. And he had faith in the person who had told him this.
A few minutes passed. The man rose, picked up his coat and walked to the altar.

He dropped a note into the donation box, as he eyed the painting of St. Sebastian on the right hand side of the altar. Perhaps the patron saint of sharpshooters would aid him tonight. The crossbow now hidden in his coat felt like the right weapon to carry under the circumstances. The Cyanide tipped arrows didn’t make him feel any worse about using a medieval weapon.
The assassin felt a huge sigh of relief as the other man walked into the other side of the confession box, and sat down to wait.

He quietly said, “Father, I have sinned. Absolve me of my sins!”
A single note of paper, creamy white and watermarked with the logo of his employer and filled with writing fluttered through the window. This was not his prey.

He had to wait some more.

He bent down to pick up the paper. Coincidence, or providence, he didn’t know which was it but at that same time an arrow thudded into the woodwork of the door. It was just where his head would have been.

He could hear the rain splatter down on the empty streets outside, and on the sloping walls of the church. He could hear his own heart, thrashing about, happy to have gotten few more hours in which to beat. He could hear every wracking
breath he took, and the quiet exhalation of his would be killer. “What the hell is going on?”he thought. “Am I here to kill someone, or is someone here to kill me?”

He wasn’t sure that a 9 mm pistol would do much good inside the wooden structure. He had to get his guy outside, and that meant exposing himself to arrows. “Where did the arrows come from?” he thought. “Who uses arrows anymore?”

All this had happened within the first few milliseconds of his being bent down.
He lashed out at the lowest panel with his leg, smashing it, creating splinters and a hole wide enough for a gun, but not wide enough for his hand to go through.

Staying away from the sight-line of the lattice window, he put in his gun upside down through the hole and shot once. A small whisper of a silenced shot came through. No sound of a body falling. He had missed.
“Now now, Peter! Really!” came the gravelly voice from the door which now stood ajar with an arrow sticking out awkwardly.

He looked amused, perhaps at the sight of the assassin splayed across the box, hands and feet spread, away from the lattice window. “You don’t want to kill someone who wants to recruit you, eh? You’re fast, I’ll give you that.”

The crossbow steadily grasped in his hand-made sure that the assassin didn’t get the time to raise his gun.

“Let’s take a walk outside, grab your coat. Let me get my shoes.” he said. “And don’t shoot me with blanks please! It’s very irritating…”
So that’s what felt wrong with the whole setup. The assassin got up slowly and awkwardly, stretching his muscles, as he got back his circulation running.

He was being tested.

The sound of the rain became amplified tenfold as soon as he stepped outside.
The brim of his hat dripped with ice-cold water as he walked and it was all he could do to keep it off his glasses. He felt an involuntary shiver that had nothing to do with the rain. There was something about a crossbow ready to shoot an arrow at you that made you feel that way.
“I kinda like you, Mr. Knight. You have a certain something I have been looking for in my employees. Consider yourself hired. Here’s the person you need to eliminate”, the short gravelly voice barked at him from behind. He was passed a brown envelope, waterproof, with a single photograph inside.

Peter Knight, assassin par excellence, crack shooter and World War II flying ace with the RAF, was being recruited for his latest job.

“I’d like to discuss the terms of our contract, if you don’t mind, Mr. Smith. Specifically, the payment I would require towards such business conducted.” he said with an impish grin now spreading across his face.

“How do you know my name?” was the surprised reply. Clearly, being caught off guard was not a regular thing for this person. He recovered fairly quickly to resume his professional façade.

“No matter, I will be transferring a quarter of a million pounds into your Royal Bank of Switzerland account #33880 tomorrow. You will receive the same amount after you have finished the job. Satisfied?”

“How can I trust you?”

“The British Government does not lie about such matters my friend…”
He slipped out the photograph from the envelope. It was his own smiling face from a year ago, when he looked vastly different. Simon Templar. The real life James Bond. Agent provocateur. Thief. Agent for hire. Assassin.
The rain sounded louder in his ears. As he looked up, his eyes met the now hopeful but aging eyes of Mr. Maurice Smith, head of MI6. British Intelligence, asking him to kill himself. This was funny.

He smiled. This was going to be easier than he thought. “Where is he?” he said.

“We don’t know. We haven’t a clue, my boy. It’s been a year since I’ve been tracking him, but he slips off. Always he makes off with something valuable and sells it to the highest bidder. We need him shut down, Mr. Knight, now. That’s what you need to do. You’re a good man for the job, so say the boys down at the Yard… So if you’ll…”

The rain got louder. And louder. He couldn’t focus on the next words. All he could see was the end of an arrow. As it grew larger. He saw it as it zoomed towards his face in the rain which fell down like a shower of sparks.

He woke up with a start. He was drooling on the paper pad on which he had fallen asleep. This was a different ending from the last time he had this memory in his dreams. His reality had begun to blur with his imagination. Perhaps he was getting too old. Perhaps it was the scotch he drank before going to sleep.

“What’s the matter Grandpa?” asked his little grandson Peter.

“Nothing son, it’s just a dream. Just a dream…” he said as he smiled. He could still hear the rain as it fell in torrents outside his house…

sadness..all pervading..
boredom, onmipresent
ennui, everywhere
my sense of being, fading..

How goes your day?

It has but begun, and mornin sun
Has yet to scorch the squalid sky
And chirping birds, aft doth fly
Asketh thou in the evenin, when day has run….

How went thy day, Oh warrior great
In anonymity, in mere mediocrity
And how we spent an hour or eight
Waiting, just waiting with alacrity..

With shaded, eyes searching, searching
For the sun, amidst the clouds dark and mean
For the velvet sky, and the birds perching
And every other thing i thought i had seen…

Ragged breaths, with the innocent morning mist,
Furrowed brows, and with a limp wrist
What good came of today? Who knows how it was spent?
Tomorrow, I will know, how my today went…

Madness

it is but a veneer, a mask,
it is a little brown flask,
where rides the waters blue and red,
it stops when i go to bed

and happiness, it doth hide
beneath that little sheath,
and it comes out to slay, aside
the demons of sanity, to lay a wreath...

and hope, it holds high
a flag, of serenity, yet fluttering
beneath the darkened sky
a thousand curses, muttering

of why I couldn't smile,
when the world wants me to
and walk that extra mile
to do what it wants me to

And this madness, there is a cure
But no one knows yet, for sure
And here laughing, I lie, tonight
in Madness, grounded,yet in flight...

Five Years in Accenture

Fickle is fate, when it decides to play with your fortunes...
Five is the number that went through my head yesterday when I realised that it had been that many years since I first stepped out into the big bad corporate world of IT.... With Accenture and it's promise of delivering high performance; little did I know what trials and tribulations, what fun and what foolishness, and above all, what a great experience it would turn out to be for me...
And today, dare I look back and say I have achieved what I thought I would?

Fiduciary benefits aside,(or the lack thereof!) had often compelled me to choose the path I had, and I think it has been an enriching journey so far.
Two trips abroad, five projects, a multitude of colleagues who have all gone on to achieve a lot in life, some lucky,some not so lucky...
What have I learnt? It is that if I live today in search of an answer to a "what if" I might not see what I must today... The blessings I have today, are more than enough to compensate for what I may perceive as a shortcoming. I realise today, that life had handed me lemons many a time, however a marked aversion to citric acid and an inability to ride a wave and take a risk has led me to where I am today.

Tomorrow, what does it hold? Who knows?
What I know is this, the memories of the last five years will not fade that easily.
And a hearty congratulations to all those idiots who've stuck around in the same company for five years, for whatever reasons!!!
Here's looking forward to the future.....

Novelty

The excitement in waiting, for something new,
The tingling of the spine, in anticipation and more
When some sweet dreams doth God weave true;
Like an unknown feeling, one you've never had before

A brand new bat, a cricket ball,
The sweet sweet smells of a new book's pages;
A shirt, you've always wanted, a trip to the mall
Happiness that grows, like a tree, in stages...

Novelty, like mist, like a morning dew spread,
Over fresh green grass, on a summer's morn
It wilts away, like a dry flower, dead
Until some new feeling is once again born...

And yet we look back, on days that are past,
For fond remembrances, for the happiness that we had last,
Thus, novelty, like an old photograph, will one day fade,
To remain a sweet memory, an everlasting charade...

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
o’er hills and vales,distances,yonder
When two hearts beat as one tonight,
I see Cupid, laughing in delight…

For love doth conquer trivial things
Like distance, ’tis but a number
And cupid with his lovely wings,
Smiles as he wishes you a fitful slumber…

And tonight as we gaze at that star,
Together,unknown, a yearning sigh,
And wish for love, love, not war
Unbeknownst to us,the hour draws nigh…

When wishes and prayers, and a little hope
Will come true, in but a little while,
For I can see, with my mind’s telescope,
Cupid, Smiling that happy smile…

A sunset

I watch a sunset, its shades a hundred,
In various hues, orange and red,
A tangerine glow, a metallic gold
Vermilion some days, a crimson bold…

A carmine red, some days it does feel,
A satin peach, on the horizon there
A blazing scarlet, or an orange peel
Sometimes it turns amber,as i stare..

When clouds cover it, in purple haze,
When i just can’t see it on rainy days
It burns in an arid desert blaze
It burns and burns, in so many ways…

As the city basks, happily, in the afterglow
Of a glorious sunset, this i know
The wonders of a sunrise await me now,
Before His majestic landscapes i bow…

We all cry, a little, a little each day
For something, we wish we could have really had
And we all wish,don't we, that we could have today
Been better,been happier, instead of being sad

We all rue in vain, at the speed of time
And as it slips away, we hear that tinny chime
sometimes, too fast, sometimes not enough
sometimes its just right, and yet it seems tough

To not regret,to not feel sad, but why indeed ?
My friend what really matters is that in the end,
Kept there for you, is just round the bend
Yet another day, to live, to succeed...

And spend such sweet spring's days
Smiling, in a blooming flower's path
Instead of in morosity, stuck in a maze
And count our little blessings, and forget our wrath...

shehar ki sadkein...

Aaj in sadko pe, maine kuch dekha hai
kuch aansu, kuch sapne, kuch hasi, kuch gham
Aur kahi kahi par ek lakshman rekha hai...

Woh lambi kataarein, woh gaadiya, woh imaaratein
Woh boodhe, woh bacche,
Aasra chahte hai, kuch pal ke liye,
Kuch pal ke liye tumhaara saath chahte hai,
Wohi pe dikhti hai inki sharaaratein...

Koi kahi se maare,paan ki pichkaari,
kabhi peeche pade koi bebas bhikari
In chhipe nazaaron ko har koi dekhta hai,
Aur har koi,har roz, ise apne dil se nikaal fekta hai...

Samay kat jaata hai mera,mann karta hai inhe dekhta hi jaau
Par kya kare kambakht, shayad apni manzil na pahunch pau
Khair, koi baat nahi,main fir kal savere nikloonga,
Shehar ki in sadko se kal fir kuch seekh loonga...

Forgotten Friendships

A poem on forgotten friendships for my friends ,whom I could never forget

What friends are we, you and I?
When all we have left to say
To each other, is nothing new,why?
Why do I sense all this today?

Time has driven a wedge,
Between friends, so large, today
That once where we didnt need any words,
Today, none suffice, and we look away

How did that friend's heart know,for sure
When the other heart did beat in love...
When once a sly smile, was all the needed cure,
For every ailment of the heart,but now...

Things do change, and people too,
Discover new ways, to make friends, new
Yet those golden days long gone,
They keep on festering, like a thorn...

Ye Raat...

Ye raat, abhi bahut kuch kehti hai,
main samajh nahi paa raha bas, yehi adchan hai...
Iski kuch paheliya suljhane mein mast hokar
Maine dekha, isme khudko, ye darpan hai

Aur kya dekha maine, ye mann bhi
mera, in taaron ki tarah, timtimata hai...
Na jaane ye kitni door hai, phir bhi
kitni roshni hai, kya muskurata hai...

Faila aasman mein kaala andhera. Par fir bhi
Ujala hai, ik chaand se, aadha hi sahi
Ye iccha hai, drid nischay hai, aur maine bhi
Pehchaana khoob ise, mann ke andhero mein kahi

Woh door kahi ek lakeer se kheecha hai,
Upar waale ne, waha se din nikalta hai
Ab hoga woh din ka ujala, bas kuch pal aur
Mujhe haske ye raat bhi bitani hai...

A Good Night Lullaby...

May the sweetest dreams come on your way,
May you have a great tomorrow, like you did today..
May you sleep fitfully,happy,with a smile,
And let your mind and body rest,tonight, awhile...

For tomorrow, is another day, hours to go
Who knows about tomorrow, what is there to know?
For today, we did good, we did God proud,
For today, we were happy, I say this out loud

For happiness, is nothing but your dreams coming true,
For joy is being happy, doing what you do,
So dream, my dear, dream, in vivid colors bright,
And sleep, my dear, sleep, as I wish you a good night...

Look at life, Differently...

What is this journey called life?
A question that has plagued everyone on earth at some point or the other... They say that a fitting answer is found only by those who are enlightened... Many spend a lifetime following these enlightened ones, in search of the answer, many set out themselves to find what others could not...
The answer, in all its simplicity, lies in the hands of the unknown Almighty, whose will it is to reveal it to those he chooses.
For those of us who believe they do not have the answer, I urge you to look around you. What do you see? Butterflies in a park, flitting from flower to flower, unmindful of the sun, the lizard on the ground, or a hundred other things that may cause it harm. All it cares for is that minuscule drop of nectar, so precious that it roams a thousand flowers to taste that drop..
What else do we see? Beggars on the street, crying, dying, maimed and destitute. But do we ever look at the joy in their eyes, when they say the fireworks in the sky during diwali? Do we ever see the love they have for each other, the tight bond of family, the sacrifices they make each day,just so that they exist?
Do we see the happiness in the eyes of that mother who goes hungry so her child may be fed one more day?
A million other sad tales abound all around us, but look carefully.
And there you will find the answer. It is in our gratitude to the Lord God for all his blessings, for all his merciful bounty that we walk through this journey of life, or rather, we are so blessed that we do not realise when God carries us on his shoulders through the most difficult of times.
All we have to do is ask. All we need to do, and this is no big deal, is to say a Thank you Lord...
But thats also being a little selfish, isn't it? What we really need to do, is add another line at the end, "Lord, please bless those people I saw today, as you blessed me too". There, now you feel so happy already from the inside..

Now you know what it is to live a good life, and a happy life...

From those sepia tinted days,
Of my golden memories,how
Can that single smile, a word of praise,
Yet remain so fresh,even now...

When the seeds of a distant dream,
Was sown, and how today I ponder,
When I see it come true, I wonder
What magic worked its way,unseen...

How someone's faith, held true,
As now I stand here before you
And the unseen hours,that someone spent, for me
That little dream, it grew like a tree...

And today, with a smile when I look back,
Through those old pictures, white and black,
I thank the Lord for his blessings,merciful,
That he deemed it fit, to give me a guardian angel,so beautiful...