A Musical Prophecy for a Cinematic State
Your parents sang
The songs of Aashiqui one,
And the wind changed.
Then you listened to
The songs of Aashiqui two,
And the tide shifted.
Now we wait for
The songs of Aashiqui three,
Until then we must write our own.
Comments
We wait for words we cannot find
To finish what we start
But music doesn't need a crowd
A quiet well inside the mind
Is where we find the art