My tiny tears are unreliable, unfaithful;
They jump out, when I don’t want
Or I don’t need; in festive season,
Between happiness and rituals,
They don’t care, don’t see
How I don’t want them to be falling.
And so influential they are,
Affect my eyes and my nose, that blush,
Red and pale, sick my face looks;
How do I teach my tears, its festival,
And we don’t cry in happiness,
We don’t hurt people who hurt us,
Because it is a festival,
We swallow anger and depression.
But these tears are rutheless;
Eyes see, but waters still,
When some of you pierce my heart
With tiny knife and tiny cuts;
Its bleeds not red but salt water,
And these tiny cuts do heal in time,
Leaving some scars behind,
And some cuts are over cut ,
With new and old knife,
And eyes water shamelessly,
Without seeing, its a festival,
And heart at so young an age,
Pains and aches, gets hopeless,
What shall happen if it heal not again,
When rutheless tears force out of eyes,
When festive moods are broken down,
And face turns pale and swells sound?
And the change remains unchanged?