The rancid realization clings to life,
that most of it is predefined by things
way beyond its own mere grasp, like the borders
of its origin and inheritance!
What can a life do about whence it came?
This life that responds to a certain name,
with certain aspirations held inside
a thick shell of skin with eyes, ears and limbs
and the face of a wanderer was born
with nothing, in nowhere, to oblivion!
Could it have settled down accepting the accepted norms?
But it’s way too late to wonder what could have been,
this river in spate has almost run its due course,
let this spent life pass its remaining hours wrapped in a dream!
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!’
Dedicated to Mulhima.
The sky is sad tonight,
his tears becoming solid hails
in the chill of a depression.
He groaned too in a blinding rage
every now and then
and each time the night grew
transparent, white, silver and blue,
baring the emptiness around.
I have always wanted to be as vast as the sky
and here I am, sad and bare as he is tonight!
Measured in meters I stand half way
between the universe and quantum particles
as lonely as the first and incomprehensible
as the latter, unpredictable at best.
After the fierce hailstorm, wind blows in sobbing gusts.
After the dripping of your words have ceased to flow,
I cannot remember why is it that we must
live like Adam and Eve with two unpardoned souls!
O Butterfly, flap not your wings in Africa!
Each time you do a violent storm rips me apart,
though my love is not like the madness of oil’s price,
moved up and down by the pride of Caligula
and nor am I the Emperor, O silent Sky!
I was not born a thousand years ago, neither
would I live to see a thousand Springs come and go.
I wonder, had Nero known he would soon be dead,
would he still be playing on! Perhaps now we shall know
from the man with a caterpillar on his head!
But the Sky remains mostly as silent as God
and everywhere the mob drowns all innocence.
Despite the loud thunders, raindrops fall on the sea.
I smell the desert wind then a storm rips through me!
Have you seen how the mornings spread across the sky,
as if Nature herself, with an invisible brush
drips water to the east on darkness of the night
and the horizons grow pale with every wash!
After a while her color palette shifts to blue,
her canvas brightens with virgin rays from the sun
and soon the silence of the air is broken too
by birds on rustic trees, meadows and city barns.
Then the fusing yellow dwarf takes over the scene,
like a child, jolted from the peace of his mother’s thighs.
The canvas turns into an art of reckoning,
exposed and merciless, in the blink of an eye!