Warriors! *

Warriors! *

Their stories could have been
of success in so many ways.
Academic, economic,
communal, marital, biological –
but, alas, they were not!

 

Life came to them in a different hue,
not inside our visual spectrum,
limited from red to blue.
So, they chose to hone their spirits, instead,
and embraced the sadness that came with it.

 

But, has it made them successful?
I’m afraid, no, not yet at least.
And have they given up?
Perhaps some did, and some would, in the days to come –
every struggle is choked by these surrenders,
imprisonment is commonplace in any war!

 

I have not forsaken my dreams, I fight,
sometime with ice, but too often with fire!
Whatever their stories are at the end,
I am their song, with a burning heart and two icy hands!

 


*  Thank You!

My Roving Brain

My Roving Brain

For K. Azz. on her Birthday

 

“Happy, happy wishes for you, my friend…”
Sings a voice from inside my roving brain,
another wails like a time ravaged soul,
“But will you and have we ever be old?”

 

I thought I had killed both Prometheus and his dreams,
long ago and buried them deep down the rocky ground
that I thought my mind and heart had become, but woe
they were only suspended in a cryogenic sleep!

 

“Have they begun to stir now from their slumbering?”
Yet another voice asks, inside my head,
in harmony with the song, still being sung,
“… and wishing many many joyous returns,
may your thoughts grow wiser still with each day,
but may your heart remain forever young…”

 

Meanwhile, a thousand more voices, both low and high,
keep voicing their own concerns, not in whispers though
but each trying to have the floor only for itself,
trying to be the lone voice that can be heard.
Sometime one succeeds and I hear a word or two,
mostly though, it is just a noise, both pure and white.

 

Then Prometheus opened his large and dreamy eyes,
and the world knew, this god-man who had brought fire down
to the succeeding rulers of earth as their crown,
was much, much less troubling than his insolent dreams.
(It was one of those that made him do what he did,
to coronate humans as future queens and kings.)

 

“What! He walks now? Kill him! Kill him!” cries another,
shrieking like a spinster, one too many times wronged.
“Kill him! Kill him now, I say, before he can come
and make you like him with a bare touch!” She carried on.

 

Then I could hear his footsteps in my head,
approaching me, the sound was drawing near.
I could not help but shrink, being too afraid,
for I had dreamed before and met its sneer.
Suddenly I caught a flash, wheezing by;
was it a real spear thrown by Death himself?
Perhaps it was all a dream, a figment
of my restless imagination, soaring high,
so high, the sun has melted its feathers down
and now it must fall to its uncharted grave!

 

The silence that followed was far more deafening!
All the voices stopped and their complains too,
even the one singing to my friend took a pause,
that was not what I had thought in the beginning!

 

In that silence I realized the footsteps,
I had shrunk from in my fear for the coming days,
was ringing no more through the corridors
of my roving brain. I grew wary for the man.
In desperation I searched all over the realm
of my thoughts for mighty Prometheus and his dreams;
all in vain! No body was found and no blood stains!

 

Nevertheless, the silence made me look outside,
past the grid of iron bars on my balcony
and the sky was silver blue from the glowing moon,
the wind smelling fresh from few recent bouts of rain.

 

And at last, a single voice, the one that sang, resumed
singing the remainder of the song to my friend.
The melody filled my heart with a light again,
“We are what we are not despite but because of
our ways, unfit, perhaps for our time or this place,
perhaps there is a grander scheme, or there is naught!
Still we must fight each day and night, with blood and tear –
growing stronger than we were yesterday.
I wish you may find courage in these humble, rugged lines
my dear friend, to blossom anew each and every year!”


 

A Blank Page

A Blank Page

And here we are, back at scribbling on a blank page,
me and some broken dreams, long dead;
more than one, decomposed down to their skeletons.

   

The heap of crumpled pages grow like algaes
around the banks of a moribund pool;
the blackish water nourishing that growth is me!

  

Bathing in the moonlit breeze of sweet March,
the astray dogs grow silent for a while,
relieved of their worries of staying alive,
until their memories, with a vengeance, return.

  

And here we are, trying to scribble out the blankness of a page –
some broken feathers and an inkwell, almost dry.
Perhaps some pages are meant to remain that way
as this empty soul without a purpose to its wretched life!


 

A String of Escapades

A String of Escapades

So my love, do I walk away all defeated and resigned?
I could blame it all on my fate
but knowing I too ought to have a hand
in making life a string of escapades,
think I better keep these thoughts to myself!
   

I missed talking to you about my indecisiveness,
though I know, now is not the time or place
for such petty feelings, it is your time to grow
and be the Summer of abundance for the world;
the final days of Fall is on the previous page!
   

Is it I whose power lets my fingers fly on the board?
Is it I who makes my neurons construe
sensory stimuli the way they do?
I wish all these were dreams I’m having in my grave!

.


 

A Broken Song

A Broken Song

It’s a small world, you said!
A world that might have been
large enough to unite with my beloved
but woe, the plague of borders and bayonets!

    

A weird time, undoubtedly,
when the governments and their polities
thrive on fear, conjured up by empty words
and a hatred for the presumed divergence!

   

Wish I had the means to ask for your hands,
a horse, a sail to leave this barren land!
Perhaps you would let me belong
to the corner you call your home,
near the mountain, decked with a forest, green,
where your cloud of hair is ruffled by the wind!

  

Still, with most of my numbered days already gone
what rights do I have on that heavy cloud,
streaked with golden rays from the sun,
woven from the same stuff as dreams?

    

Yet, since I have vowed not to leave
a single word unsaid, let me conclude by
pledging these humble words at your feet –
if I were Hades, would you be my Persephone?
I promise to keep the world unthawed
and the winter, running all year long!

.