-desigurllx

Hey author! 
          If you're a fan of desi muslim love stories, then I've exactly what you're looking for. Please do check out my book! 
          
          The story revolves around Sayam and Mirha who are tied in a childhood marriage. Unaware of the fact that Mirha never knew about it, Sayam continues to love her throughout his life. And when she returns, a storm comes along with her. 
          
          Will Mirha give a chance to Sayam to prove his feelings to her? Will Sayam's one sided love story will ever become mutual? Read out to know! Thank you. 
          https://www.wattpad.com/story/358602458?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=Incantevolescrive_

a small token of kindness ( 21st january 2023 ) 
          
          bruised october, champagne bread; weeping permissions and tightened braids. a mother of brass, windows of pages; ebbs of midnight, divided miseries. 
          
          copper sprain, malachite oxygen; birds of meetings, broken silences. venn of the woods, the wind and the windpipe; foreign vowels, submerged wrinkles. wet crayons, scents of blue; crisp metaphors and pigeon hues. 
          
          palms of desserts, midnight sober; fire that slips, a womb of sonnets. lemonade poems, an annihilating waist; casual grave, a whisper of conclusions. a poet of confessions, a sky of sin; sacred rain, storm antique. 
          
          blurry opals and cigarette soliloquies; swaying septum and a bouquet of tattood ribs. spine of butter, vinegar patio; breastbone shelter, cronus love. white doorstep, a welcome ghost; trees forget leaves, winter shrinks bones. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token token kindness (01st january 2023)  
          
          steadfast sunsets, crooked mornings; lake a crowd of gleaming mournings. lyrics that burn, bones hopeless; tongue of wind, it rarely stays. a future of magma, temple and cityscape; humans among humans, a home bereft. 
          
          a birth that bleeds, a firmament of fleeting wisps; feet smelling of earth, lips a facade, what we appreciate. filigree like rain, a blush of darker reign; summer distorted, desert a burning lace. panaroma of a kaleidoscope, a bard like grackle; pits of doubt and a park of frission. 
          
          jardin de tuileries, seeds of breezes; memory endearments and waves of freedom. satin scents, devoted petals; barricaded branches and canvas of dripping enchantments. convivial music, lily trenchants; reflective denouements, fulgent waterfalls of wisterias. 
          
          violent fears, chalices of secrets; numbing encouragements,  frosted vanilla. oscillating mountains, cloved cessations; tainted vicolos, bricks of dried redolences. parasols of petrichor, labyrinth of moonflowers; tower of desire, rose precipices. keep a smile, with flowers divine; they grow not on well made roads but through the rough womb of mother earth. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (5th november 2022) 
          
          mouth of honesty, bloody honey; ravenous sobriquets, transparent metaphors. panting edicts, divine passages; unambiguous gravity, chaotic muscles. summer hunger, fermenting sun; mullein breaths, fervent dust. metamorphic roads, joyous courage; naked rage and newborn remembrance. 
          
          exuberant mountains, icy bees; conformed pollen, eclipsed wins. clavicle roots, burning prayers; mediocre comfort, hopeful sorrows. web of confidants, shadows of the known; gentle croaks, hesitant murders. mind a wild animal, a forest caged; auroras and sacrifices, reminiscent repercussions. 
          
          bodies of petunias, breathing skins; blood of stories, water of prison. white cotton whispers, kind demons; alchemy of weaknesses, battling questions. sacred dignity, waves of hormones; rituals of october, bargaining autumn. drop by drop, zest of oranges. 
          
          esprit of mother's milk, primal daughters; lust of earth, a shadow pure. work into exhaustion, round the clock and round the ; there is half of hope alive, half of flesh left to strain. cold is the night, still and mellow; cold is the sun that has wrung itself yellow. perhaps the moon curses its cries, hides in lone pain and white sky, for then it is rarely rejected; unlike storms. 
           #adropofhumanity 

I’ve started a Bollywood story which is a variation on the movie Jug Jugg Jeeyo . It would mean a lot if you could please read it and let me know what you think. Tysm❤️

Hey dear check out my new varia story that I will be updating daily “ Majboori Wala Love “ 
          Hope you like it ❤️
          
          https://www.wattpad.com/story/271650075?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create_story_details&wp_uname=srkfanforlifewoooo&wp_originator=E67Vrkno8kJcTK%2FdX4xKMR0D4JOD8xz9O8SuqoMFHHYzIFmX36jfWATJTvUCYLhh77DUzARypaQkBs5dJnyQ0H0aY1OrojDuq03XvlYl1dy9qzOL45F4u6Tg30EN7Ejf

Hi Desi. Hope u doing well♥️

what’s up desi gurl?

a small token of kindness (13th October 2021) 
          
          in eternity, where the clouds have submerged within museums of misery, perhaps shall we find a blossom of ours stuck under the piles of howling prayers. there the sun would be no less than a saucer; a large yet miniscule form of torture, blood dried in its dirt coated fingers. its lost factors oozing out tear- strained, glass-held colours of melancholy. 
          
          we carry the sun a little each day, and we roar of its greatness, of its architecture and its rays that tastes similar to death. you have viewed it in a manner soothing to your mind, and others to theirs. how many suns have we in this process made? 
          
          and how many of these shall perish once we do? you can narrate, you can allow the world a touch of your dream, but what more would they be aware of than just a snap of the rushing moment? the sun you had known in your way, shall ultimately perish with you.
          
          we carry until we become the carriers. the sun too shall mingle its rays for a last moment with some human perhaps too proud to engage with it. and just as simply, the world shall collapse with not a soul who will be aware of all the bounties; all the flowers with their inks, the rose thorn pricks, the ticklish butterflies on summer noses, drops of salt stained ocean fishes, the calloused experiments between the crevices of fingers and the tragedy of the rituals of the wooden empires.
          
          we will die inevitably, death cleans life. but while we are alive, must we not create memories unique to our eyes? keep a part of each subject in you. death was never a matter of loneliness. it has always been about keeping the right forms of every thing witnessed within you; prevented from decay and protected till infinity. 
           #adropofhumanity 
          

jhumka gira de !