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!
As the rain with a drizzle, unrelenting,
soaks the ground, come to me and drench my thirst!
Leave behind a wet sheen to make my soul,
like a rain soaked street, a giant reflector,
reflecting back some light to fill the scene
and glowing too with the audacity of hope!
Sometime it rains through the night and the dawn
is as dark as the hours that came before
and sometime the day too gets washed away
by a torrential pelting from the clouds!
The raindrops, falling on me as I walk,
where did they start their earthbound falling from?
Is it those dark grey clouds, crying overhead
or a dark figment of my imagination?
For I see no one washed and made fair by the rain
or perhaps it did but we succumbed, yet again!
Raindrops remind me of rivers.
Has not an ocean, far away,
sent her love through the clouds for them,
the widening rivers in spate,
with a godlike silent desire
to be recognized as the source,
for the raindrops will return in the end?
They always do, in delight or contempt!
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!