Still you’d say, death would not have been better
than this life of looking the other way,
of silent compromise with the devil
and perchance even worse! “But tomorrow…”
Yes, what this afternoon was yesterday;
that is how tomorrows will ever be
a past hope, an illusion in the end!
Still you’d root for friends over solitude,
as if our company and partners say
more of us than what we are underneath
and perchance even lie! “But a real friend…”
A wolf, hidden behind the face of man;
that is how all friends will turn out to be,
a promise, that was shattered in the end!
I am honored. Thank you!
Poem By Amit Rahman, My Inspiring Friend And Collaborator.
“Wait for a while,” I shouted and sped towards the horizon,
“are you Treebeard’s clan?” I cried, almost out of breath
but the silhouettes kept receding into the sunset,
a band of weary Ents, persecuted by aws all around.
“Finglas is that you?”, doubting if I could be heard,
I could not help shouting nevertheless,
I had to try and stop them from receding into the desert sands beyond,
so I pressed on, “is that not Fladrif, I see, at your side?”
But it was all in utter vain, only silence greeted me,
save the echoes of my panting words and steps, overwrought,
since serrated Greed and short sighted gains had won the fight
against our dying conscience for rest of both the Time and World!
A grey dove sat atop an olive tree,
its wings dull and brown from the toiling flight;
five thousand miles of ocean waves and seas!
A few missing feathers on each, it hoped
would grow again to fill the gaping holes;
thankfully it was just the raging wind!
“Where is she? Where is she?”, panting it cooed,
in a voice both sharp and melancholic,
intrusive yet hauntingly beautiful.
‘I have come from far away, where the sun
used to shine less cruelly in days bygone
and the rivers too were panoramic.’
‘Now it is as barren as I am without her’,
the grey dove thought, ‘but my coos are not spreading far!’
Written for and Dedicated to my good Friend, Kholood Azz.
Neck down an Imazighen sculpture, aware of her head,
where the fire burns an intense shade of blue, not hectic red!
One feet straddling the azure Mediterranean, she puts
the other on the glittering sands of cruel Sahara,
where the crickets never sing and the grains, both fine and crude
do not know the bliss of rain in hearts, made of Silica!
“You,”, she cried, casting her fiery eyes to the east, “unruly sun,
wake up from your weary sleep”, she insisted, “and pierce the horizon
with light from the fire that burns inside you, as it does in my head,
fusing lighter elements into the core building blocks of life,
so I can welcome those numerous blinding flashes of brightness
and know if the fire burns equally within my heart, limbs and strides!”