Let us leave the hand of misery,
and pledge to never gloat in self-pity.
Life is tough, its hard,
but lets just never judge.
We all are victims of both hate and lust.
And this is life nothing more that that,
it is stiff for those who always doubt.
Whatever happens, happens….
So why fret let us love and hold
hands of those who are left behind.
Smile and for once just be kind.
I know not…
Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?
As I stood on a tortured sea-shore
and cast my eye on the swollen waves
passionately kissing my naked feet
making love to me with a brutish force
taking me in its azure vinyl embrace
slowly grasping my flaming flesh with
a fiery I’ve never known before,
an uproar a stir in my fragile body
exhausted since centuries of decay
the foamy saline waters entering in me
through all nook and corners, fissures and holes
mixing in all the violent blues with the
crimson reds, crawling stealthily like million
serpents, wriggling gushing upwards
Oh! a sensation a loud roar within
a rapture somewhere, an euphoric elation
an electric jolt worth thousands bolts!
My enslaved body in an act of consummation
so strong, my heart-ached, soul-shuddered
at the violation so brutal, like a hapless bird
caught in a nib of a savage Falcon from the
far-east, I let it happen without any contest
Why? Because I possessed it too and let loose
the cinders of ancient fire burning in me
for I didn’t surrender, and let it go on without
a single doubt or shame nor did I curse
the gods above, knowing that no desire is
mightier than the other, for yearnings
have the same frenzy everywhere.
But I know not…
Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?
My mom told me,
dad was a first born.
First born and lovers
always go away…
I travelled to far-flung
lands, never staying
more than a year or so.
It gutted me to explain
everything; the father…
the lover and everything
in between, but then
I remember, I’m a first-born,
and moved away.
Why do I feel?
I’m trying to catch,
But I’m left far-far behind?
It’s not a step but ,
a thousand miles
apart.
But some days I don’t
even try, I can’t make
up for the untrodden
paths or stride fast
to reach where I
shouldn’t.
In the dark corner of the house adorned a crimson hued Tabrizi rug,
gifted to me as the wedding present, imported from the mountains;
of Hindu-Kush, embellished with poppy flowers and lovers’ passionate hugs
Violet borders bejeweled with a fine needlework of embroidered springs.
Especially handcrafted from the hands of a virgin maid with lofty desires
Intricately woven with the woolly knits and exquisite twisted golden wires
So how it became a constant companion in my otherwise blissful nuptial voyage
taking the shape and creases of my body in its crimson folds, so clairvoyant
We both grew to confide and embrace each other on moonless nights
During the dark nights I would hear vague cries and faint sighs
And would awoke by the silent sobbing and consistent choking sounds
The tormenting shrills one makes when inflicted with a fresh wound
After long desperate searches in the eerie neighborhoods in vain
I decided to hunt down the sniveling offender on a night when it rain
As I searched and rifled, discovered it came from the joints of the rug
Deep with in the sews of silverfish anklets and bangles, felt as if on high drug
Veiled and shackled a gaunt silhouette appeared in the woolen cracks
Thickened clots of cherry blood from bruised hands left its tracks
The sobbing sounds grew louder and a known voice pierced through
“My virgin hands intricately weaved the wires of gold and silver to woe
I dared to dance with my heart’s desire with men of different tribe
A misconduct for which I was to be buried-alive in sews and imbibe
Frozen embalmed in the embroidered joints I came back from death
When your warm saline tear cascaded in my mouth I finally took a breath”
We became lovers of sorts, embracing on moonless nights,
Fasted and prayed on our Tabrizi rug, shed tears, took gentle sighs
It became a seminary a refuge when her or mine master was around!
Until the inauspicious day of a long lunar month when we both were found
Castrated for our naked sins, she was burnt while I was forever hound!
In the dark corner of the house adorned a crimson hued Tabrizi rug,
gifted to me as the wedding present, imported from the mountains;
of Hindu-Kush, embellished with poppy flowers and lovers’ passionate hugs
Violet borders bejeweled with a fine needlework of embroidered springs.
Especially handcrafted from the hands of a virgin maid with lofty desires
Intricately woven with the woolly knits and exquisite twisted golden wires
So how it became a constant companion in my otherwise blissful nuptial voyage
taking the shape and creases of my body in its crimson folds, so clairvoyant
We both grew to confide and embrace each other on moonless nights
During the dark nights I would hear vague cries and faint sighs
And would awoke by the silent sobbing and consistent choking sounds
The tormenting shrills one makes when inflicted with a fresh wound
After long desperate searches in the eerie neighborhoods in vain
I decided to hunt down the sniveling offender on a night when it rain
As I searched and rifled, discovered it came from the joints of the rug
Deep with in the sews of silverfish anklets and bangles, felt as if on high drug
Veiled and shackled a gaunt silhouette appeared in the woolen cracks
Thickened clots of cherry blood from bruised hands left its tracks
The sobbing sounds grew louder and a known voice pierced through
“My virgin hands intricately weaved the wires of gold and silver to woe
I dared to dance with my heart’s desire with men of different tribe
A misconduct for which I was to be buried-alive in sews and imbibe
Frozen embalmed in the embroidered joints I came back from death
When your warm saline tear cascaded in my mouth I finally took a breath”
We became lovers of sorts, embracing on moonless nights,
Fasted and prayed on our Tabrizi rug, shed tears, took gentle sighs
It became a seminary a refuge when her or mine master was around!
Until the inauspicious day of a long lunar month when we both were found
Castrated for our naked sins, she was burnt while I was forever hound!
“Health is more than about what you are eating. It’s what you are thinking, saying and believing.”
A glance is enough for the heart to beat
to transform naivety into shrewdness
of some kind, many long for it in the ancient past
to moisten their dry parched youth, as the case
it never befalls where it ought to, yearnings
fossilized froze in the corner of heart, birds
never chirp on the skeletal trees, insects don’t
dwell in the deceased fallen barks, dimpled
cheek cupids doesn’t appear for those who
always wait and sigh, no ballads are sung
on the onset of youth, nor a tear on its passing,
some do age without the grace of a glance
and leave the grim world still longing for
one glance.
Weaved with a lot of skill and compassion
Oblivious stood erected in disdain
Persian turquoise, Indian indigo…
You name it, and I had flowers of different valleys
Bathed in egotism, adorning-robe of pride
Relishing my pristine appearance, while
Scorning others, self gloating was my sin
Sure of my fate, to be embellished at
reception decor Of heavenly virgin bride,
I Spoke meticulously the tongue of vanity,
My artisan a blind simpleton
Crafted me with great virtuosity
A connoisseur of colors, arranged
Silk flowers with tears filled with pity
But I basking in the glory of self adulation
Elated, high browned looked down on him.
On other customary bunches, turn after turn
Dates after dates, final day arrived wrapped in laced
White Upholstery, escorted in a black Lemo
to a town of a black widows, shrieking wailing
unwelcomed my arrival, roughly handled and bruised
was placed on a coffin of one senile old man, whose
only act of courage was a piece of land where he
was to buried.
Between here and over there
Respites a bleak valley of fear
Where dwells wailing widows
Behind those green meadows
Mourning deaths of bleeding lovers
An ugly cloud over it always hovers
I sometimes halt at the fork
Deciding which trail to unlock
Every path passes the same valley
For its almost a blind alley
Shall I take the track leading
the valley where moans of bleeding
resonates or just turn back speeding
Never to turn around in that trail
Where the drab and dreary prevails
But if I turn back ill be labeled a fail
For there are tracks we must take
knowing that our hearts will break
So I continue the march to the valley
without any further tilly tally.
