A wonderful ballad,
once written with the
crimson hues, all in
middle of a raven night.
The most perfect composition
ever. A-sorcery of words,
forever sealed, in the
beats of my youthful heart.
Tune ebbs and flows,
echoing the magical words
“ I would do anything for
love but I won’t do that….”
( R.I.P Meatloaf, this poem is a tribute to most beautiful song ever written by a very special artist)
Pulsating beats,
again a trigger,
although smiling
Inside I know,
It is again out
to get me.
The fear is not of drowning in your eyes,
nor sinking in those pools of translucent dews but
of being abandoned at the sides of your lips
by the myriad tear-drops.
Trapped in a fluid body,
tentacles of burgundy garbed
thoughts oozing out like
myriad snake heads. Sniffing
somberly, the dark melancholia
pervasive in the air and then
crawling back, melting again
with the red hues.
Tiny little droplets of desires,
evaporating on the
wings of bluish helium;
like morning dew.
Life a struggle, to extract honey
out of sacks of wild weed.
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
( My favorite poet, W.B Yeats )
The day we become a history,
the sepia air dampened the lush
green memories,the hollow houses
stood empty while the gleeful
ghosts of the past occupied shallow
graves, that lazy brook saw it all
with her tearful eyes, the azure skies didn’t
budge from their stands while the
ancient trees remained testimonials
of the day we become a history.
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!
If I’am you,
you are me
and that’s all
than
we are us.
Behind those crooked smiles
lie some grief, little pain…
Those winning dimples,
sunken deep in cheeks
hollowed by cheap joints
of gas-stations telling tales
of murky betrayals.
Ruby wines oozing of
the pale veins in those
abandoned cabarets.
Love a Wasteland!
She did bloom a Rose
or a Tulip
somewhere!
