Another Sleepless Night

They are just sounds,

Until touched by a composer,

Who gives it a soul.

They are just words,

Until penned by a poet,

Who grants it a form.

They are just lines,

Until sung by an artist,

Who brings it alive.

With a soul, form and life,

Songs are flashbacks,

Of the forgotten memories.

Songs are a pleasure,

For a mortal in love.

Songs are therapy,

To a person in vain.

Songs are celebrations,

To rich and poor.

Songs are lullabies,

That makes everyone sleep.

Songs are culture,

To the devoted worshipers,

Songs are ideologies,

To the rebellious blood.

Songs can be anything,

Many times a sole companion,

To a desolate kind like me.