Who can guarantee, we are not blind?
All the stars that are dying now, if they are
a billion light years away, their demise
we’d know after a billion years!
Till then, astronomers would map the light
as forlorn poets across the world would pledge
their love with poems, penned through the night!
And still you’d say, we are not blind!
Neither deaf, nor numb till we feel or hear
the lights from the act or sounds from the scene!
Still you’d insist that we can know,
despite our existence in a superior dream!
Last night’s sweet residue of a tender happiness
though palpably spread across the length of my skin,
with my long history of waking up to find,
the joyful surrender was only a mere dream,
I hope this is not one of those times! If it is,
let me sleep as I don’t want to wake up again!
That soothing touch of the night cannot revive me.
Its silence, riding on the pleasant wind
or its dark shroud, hiding my sorrows for the rain
can no more imbue me with the light of creation.
What else is more unique to humankind alone?
How else can I justify my blessed breaths?
This hazy roller coaster ride, the one
we so lovingly plan ahead in time,
without knowing which way is the next turn –
up or down, how sharp to the left or right,
emboldens us to call those rare few without plans
as outcasts for not yielding to the perceived norms.
And lo, still I write, though since dawn I was
bleeding to death on the red plains of Mars,
with the dusk She rose like the rising sun,
halfway to Venus my spirit returned!
Is it not the way true love should feel like,
the more one lives, the less the other dies?
Dedicated to Kholood Azz,
the most beautiful human being I have met so far,
for rekindling my love in the humankind!
In the shadows a violin comes to life.
The sadness from her sustained agonies
seeps into the wilderness of my heart.
The flash of memories, both old and new,
at my door returns, like a long lost friend
and I wonder if I am dying at last!
I can feel the soft wailing of the strings
ravaging through my organs from inside,
annihilating me like Nirvana.
Then I knew, with a shudder and a heave,
from my wild cravings to be at your side
what being in the mood for love truly means!
I grow weary of my existing form,
what good has this human shape done so far!
Wish I could have been the gentle wind instead,
blowing inland from middle earth’s northern shore
and softly play with your cascading locks,
as you look up at the evening star!
Being a nimbus cloud too would have sufficed
and float towards my destiny, against
the rotation of the earth on its poles
to hold you with my shadows from the sky,
when the sun is too rude on your sacred face
and drown your sorrows in the joy of rain!
I have a dream that I will be
on the sandy shore of Carthage one day,
to reimburse the Punic collateral
taken unlawfully by a cruel Mars!
The vast blue oceans that keep me away,
will be my ride when the time comes
but when? I too have often asked myself the same.
When did Hannibal brave the Alpine chill?
I do not think Lord has plucked me
or may be, for I burn nevertheless
to right the wrongs and write some songs
in praise of an all encompassing love!
Love is how the earth lets a seedling grow
or how the clouds empty their vaults
after flying for weeks in the wind’s flow
or how the moon dogs an ever fleeting sun!
Perhaps I shall arrive at the shore of my dream
or perhaps I shall drown and be
another Phlebas for eternity!
But if I reach my home I have found in your eyes,
I shall humbly ask for your hands and say,
I have come my Love, now please make me thine!
You would be perfectly justified
in thinking, what nonsense is this,
for that is what which follows ought to feel.
Where can I start and how should I begin:
at the moment I was born or you, perhaps not,
humankind cannot see their coming lot!
Perhaps it was a recent thing,
when I first laid my eyes on your blessed face
outshining the green backdrop with its innocence,
simpler and yet more glorified than the earthly mounds!
Or may be, as it is said in so many texts
of Holy origin, that human fate
and destiny are more or less preordained,
so I’d end up saying this was determined,
long before the cosmos began to spread,
let alone earth, moon or the human race!
Perhaps I am nothing
but a Troubadour revived from his grave,
whose foiled heart still throbs in disgrace
of queen Hera’s will to settle down!
But as children of our circumstances,
as much as we are of our destinies,
despite future woes we succumb
to the lure of our present dreams,
so I confess, in your eyes I have seen
the ocean of my river’s wanderings.
And a river in spate I have been for too long
but now o fair soul, can I call your eyes my home?
*Mulhima is an Arabic word. It means "Muse".