ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aradhya Juneja is a 14-year-old writer with a deep love for words and emotions She discovered her passion for poetry at the age of 13, using it as a way to express her thoughts, dreams, and the beauty hidden in everyday life.

Aradhya is the author of 2 books 'When Pain Becomes Poetry' and 'The Hall of Hidden Light'. She is also the co-author of 25+ anthologies. She is also an enthusiastic compiler. She has compiled a recent anthology 'We Were Almost'. Currently, she is working on her second anthology, 'The Last Prayer'.

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1. Stranger with Memories 

I have forgotten your fragrance,

Perhaps you were a dream.

You are the memory blurred,

Or once my loudest scream.

Are you my lost loved one,

That I would never accept?

Or just a hope of hate,

A mere cruel fate, inept?

I have forgotten your name—

Will you remind me again?

It feels like I’ve heard it somewhere,

Or perhaps I fear what waits there.

Isn’t it insane—

To know everything, yet nothing?

Wait… aren't you a stranger with memories,

Two humans in the worst state—suffering?

2. Deeper Love, Deeper Wounds 

They say, 

Deeper the love,

Deeper the wounds....

But is love bound,

Two sided?

Can we not love,

Unless we don't receive love ?

Maybe we feel hurt,

because we leave pieces of ourselves -

in everything we used to love.

3. Unrequited Love

The tree holds its breath,

When the wind speaks of storms ;

Because the tree only loves the wind.

And the wind only craves for the storm.

Every leaf whispers above,

Begging the wind to stay and love.

Begging it to stay,

But the wind sways.

The tree feels broken -

So it holds it roots more tight,

And the wind, unknown, takes its flight.

The tree still stands still,

Maybe one day the wind will feel-

The tree only loved the wind,

And the wind only craved for the storm.

4. Attachment 

With every detachment, you lose a part of you,

A verse of emotion—untold, untrue.

The tears once shed,

No longer to be bled.

The tissues that carried your silent grief,

Like the lost fragments of who you were, brief.

But take one last look,

And move on, like a book.

Move on, like clouds letting go of the dew,

For even they cannot forever renew.

Move on from your attachments,

For forever is a fiction,

And life leads you to eviction.

The plant sheds the dry flower,

Perhaps to bloom with renewed power.

Like a bonfire,

Comforting from afar,

But as you go close,

It leaves you scarred.

And my attachment still says,

"If I had to choose to burn,

I would still yearn."

And I must say,

"Attachment is the great fabricator of dismay."