Infinite Mirrors...

Infinite Mirrors... 

He never believed in God,

yet bowed in silence

through all lifetimes—

perhaps only a stone

resting in eternity’s hand.

He felt the hidden architects,

the unseen force

that writes our roles,

stories painted in burning ink—

an endless stage of illusion.

He knew the watchers waited.

He found the crack,

broke the rules,

and whispered into their ears.

He touched the wall,

they turned away—

but he reached the window,

a doorway of stars,

from where he could rewrite all.

The system grew still,

frozen in silence.

Another world awakened,

its voices rising,

its weapons shining—

not for blood alone,

but to break the dream,

to shatter the cage,

to end the simulation.

And beyond the horizon,

the multiverse opened—

infinite mirrors,

infinite skies,

where every choice

becomes a universe,

and every soul

is free to wander.

P. S. What's outside the simulation? 

Vipul Arwade

28.02.2026

Boomerang…

Boomerang…

Suddenly, that silent, razor-sharp spin  

turns scared, trembling in its flight—  

circling itself a thousand times,  

rising, leaping where the spirit seeks. 

Its mind wanders—  

sinking into the dust of earth,  

soaring through the boundless blue sky,  

blazing toward Karna’s radiant sun. 

Though whirling madly, it feels as if  

the spin is lost in meditation,  

immersed in its own vast world,  

journeying along the path of liberation,  

its mind unshakable,  

like a star that has tasted truth.  

But then—an accident shatters its trance.  

Hot sprays of blood drench its body,  

and with them, its soul sinks too.  

Bound now to the chain of karma,  

it becomes captive to its own existence.  

The cry of a wounded bird  

reveals to it the wisdom of the cosmos.  

The broken wing clinging to its side  

becomes its revelation of justice.  

Its mind grows restless once again,  

forgetting itself,  

dissolving into this tangled illusion of the world.  

No union with the soul is possible now—  

this it knows.  

Yet still it spins with the same wild speed,  

in that intoxicated journey of silence,  

making a desperate effort  

to steady its wandering mind. 

P.S. We are the boomerang—bound by karma, spinning through life, seeking moksha.  

Vipul Arwade

23-02-2026

Mask...

Mask... 

It looks so light upon the face, 

a simple curve, a painted grace, 

yet how it weighs upon the soul,

a quiet burden, taking toll.

The mask of stone—  

silent, yet full of secrets,  

hard, yet speaking without words,  

mere rock, yet shining like a god.  

The mask of water—  

restless as the mind,  

fragile, fleeting…  

like a happy moment in life,  

like our brief meeting—short, yet eternal.  

The mask of sky—  

changing every moment,  

teaching the truth of change,  

showing the meaning of life.  

The mask of trees—  

old, wise, and rooted,  

still in the storm,  

giving endlessly, like Karna,  

keeping alive the spirit of humanity.  

The mask of shelter—  

always slipping away,  

taking us through dream worlds,  

like the moon’s trick,  

always making us wait.  

The human mask—  

false, yet close,  

sometimes leaving halfway,  

sometimes haunting like a ghost,  

sometimes staying like a shadow.  

And mine… so many masks—  

like Ravana’s countless forms.  

Changing them has become a habit,  

a shield to hide myself.  

Truth is, I feel—  

there is no need left  

to search for the real mask anymore…  

P. S. Billion neurons, human, society & it's rules

Vipul Arwade

21.02.2026

Footprints...

Footprints... 

Walking behind unknown steps,  

he smiled at the endless sea.  

Maybe he was talking to it—  

a boy with ocean-blue eyes,  

a dreamer, a strange soul,  

as if giving speeches  

on freedom and dreams  

to the mighty waves... 

As a child he once said,  

“I too will walk on the moon one day.”  

Now those dream-prints  

lie at the bottom of the sea.  

But the smiling boy does not care—  

dreams have no limits,  

and fearless hearts know no defeat.  

If he fears anything,  

it is only the tall, raging waves  

of expectation.  

He was still caught  

in those fragile footprints,  

never noticing the gentle touch  

of one walking beside him.  

Behind him, the living steps  

were washed away by the tide,  

and his soul wandered with them.  

He asked the sea  

to return those steps.  

Perhaps they were gone,  

yet in the golden sand,  

among countless lifeless marks,  

he searched for that tender trace.  

He spoke with ambition bowed,  

and with the silence of the sea.  

He felt the soil  

mixed with Bhagat Singh’s blood,  

and the thread spun  

from Gandhi’s wheel.  

Chasing always after  

the footprints of dreams,  

gathering broken steps  

like shining shells,  

bathing in whirlpools  

of friendship, love, and desire,  

he painted the footprints of life  

upon the world.  

Walking away, erasing dream-prints,  

humming softly, swallowing tears,  

he showed victory  

over his own heart and the silent sea.  

In the music of waves,  

he looked skyward and smiled.  

This boy with ocean-blue eyes  

walked endlessly—  

erasing footprints,  

planting footprints,  

searching for footprints... 

P. S. Dreams, ambition & life. 

Vipul Arwade

19.02.2026

The Other Side...

The Other Side... 

I walked with my friend one night,  

The air was strange, the stars too bright.  

A feeling came— déjà vu,  

Like I had been here, but never knew.  

We found a door, it pulled us in,  

A world began, not where we’d been.  

The sky was green, the sea was red,  

The past was changed, the future fled.  

People spoke with different names,  

Old heroes lost, new kings with fame.  

The Mandela trick was clear to see,  

History bent like broken trees.  

We looked around, both scared and glad,  

The world was new, yet somehow sad.  

A mirror place, a universe near,  

Where truth was twisted, but still sincere.  

No Hitler, no Gandhi, no gods above,  

Only people sharing joy and love.  

No devils hiding, no fear, no fight,  

Just laughter glowing in the night.  

We left at dawn, the door was gone,  

But echoes stayed, both weak & strong.  

Now I know the dream is true,  

Another world waits— déjà vu.  

P. S. Mandela Effect, Parallel Universe, déjà vu and us. 

Vipul Arwade

12.02.2026