You were the breeze that cooled the sparrow perched up on my window,
I too wished to dwell in your company. And off you flew with that sparrow.
I too wished to dwell in your company. And off you flew with that sparrow.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
What do you wish me to be?
What do you wish me to be?
The wind that can swirl what time has implanted within you
Or the breeze that’s just gentle and yields from you without a bicker.
The wind that sets the desert in to an untameable delirium
Or the breeze that just flows past whispering an old secret.
The wind or the breeze?
What do you wish me to be?
The infinitude of the ocean that can cleave your hull
Or the narrow stream that just wets the feet in a sunny lull.
The interminable torrent that can drown but leave you thirsty
Or the quenching boundedness incapable of ingesting you.
The ocean or the stream?
What do you wish me to be?
The earth beneath –the eternal womb of creation
Or the skies above- the untouchable illusion of destiny.
This stage beneath with props and actors deluding smiles and tears
Or the clock above, that’s both light and curtain to the show.
The earth or the sky?
What do you wish me to be?
The placid permanence of death,
Or the temporal temptation of life.
Sublime in to the ubiquitous darkness
Or be a flickering flame on a stolid yet vanishing candle?
Life or death?
What do you wish me to be?
The Lighthouse
As I walk by the beach, waves washing away the footsteps I leave,
I wonder where that youth and zeal vanished to.
Knowing fully well, that no glory lies ahead, no cause too noble,
That truth is, only till the twist of logic.
Now, that there are only questions and no answers, may it be known,
That there is childhood and then there is life.
No pain seems too great that numbness cannot take its place.
Isn’t today but a rehearsal of tomorrow?
The road I walked by, hold no mark of my soul,
Here by these rocks, there used to be a lighthouse
Up to which, against the wind, I used to race.
Can someone tell me whatever happened to it?
Many a nightmares made my sleep terrible, as a child many a fears I used to know.
The spans of time have got me over them all but one.
And I remain clinging on to life dear, for the fear of death alone.
Can there be a better reason to life than that?
Hey dearest of strangers, here by these rocks there for sure used to be a light house,
While I write an obit to it,
Can someone tell me, if the roads ahead will show me the lighthouse again?
I wonder where that youth and zeal vanished to.
Knowing fully well, that no glory lies ahead, no cause too noble,
That truth is, only till the twist of logic.
Now, that there are only questions and no answers, may it be known,
That there is childhood and then there is life.
No pain seems too great that numbness cannot take its place.
Isn’t today but a rehearsal of tomorrow?
The road I walked by, hold no mark of my soul,
Here by these rocks, there used to be a lighthouse
Up to which, against the wind, I used to race.
Can someone tell me whatever happened to it?
Many a nightmares made my sleep terrible, as a child many a fears I used to know.
The spans of time have got me over them all but one.
And I remain clinging on to life dear, for the fear of death alone.
Can there be a better reason to life than that?
Hey dearest of strangers, here by these rocks there for sure used to be a light house,
While I write an obit to it,
Can someone tell me, if the roads ahead will show me the lighthouse again?
Sunday, May 29, 2011
A Thought On Immortality
The leftover of consumed sanity,
A hushed up thought in a sizzling mind.
Doing the pirouettes in this labyrinth,
Many a lost and many a dead.
Of shades and light,
A relationship of inseparability,
Ever again the same ones
Knocking the doors I find.
By those familiar corners,
Wafts some old ghosts.
Out of those walls again,
Peep some sleeping faces.
In that abysmal somnolence,
Elicit I, a few mortgaged dreams
Again to lend them hues of hope.
And yet a few eluding ones,
Pricked to life in the halo of a high.
Rise from the graves, children of my mind,
Let’s end this game of hide and seek.
For in this maze of time, by this corner
I might come again.
But might then be too bitter in the heart
To play this game.
So, Oh thoughts, you that
I have seduced and fondled with,
You that I have beguiled in to existence,
Let me etch you in to immortality.
When this life of drawing holes
In bubbles sublimes to nothingness,
You will ripple in perpetuity.
When you impregnate a thousand
Minds with dreams,
As your shadow, beneath your light
Of hope I will lurk.
Hey thought, my elixir of immortality,
Come forth this once
Let me write my name on you.
A hushed up thought in a sizzling mind.
Doing the pirouettes in this labyrinth,
Many a lost and many a dead.
Of shades and light,
A relationship of inseparability,
Ever again the same ones
Knocking the doors I find.
By those familiar corners,
Wafts some old ghosts.
Out of those walls again,
Peep some sleeping faces.
In that abysmal somnolence,
Elicit I, a few mortgaged dreams
Again to lend them hues of hope.
And yet a few eluding ones,
Pricked to life in the halo of a high.
Rise from the graves, children of my mind,
Let’s end this game of hide and seek.
For in this maze of time, by this corner
I might come again.
But might then be too bitter in the heart
To play this game.
So, Oh thoughts, you that
I have seduced and fondled with,
You that I have beguiled in to existence,
Let me etch you in to immortality.
When this life of drawing holes
In bubbles sublimes to nothingness,
You will ripple in perpetuity.
When you impregnate a thousand
Minds with dreams,
As your shadow, beneath your light
Of hope I will lurk.
Hey thought, my elixir of immortality,
Come forth this once
Let me write my name on you.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Scorched for hours, the hooligan has trawled in the night.
Crimson painted, bloody from the travail is the sky.
The ruckus and the rumpus, the clamour and the blare,
From a thousand noises now transposed to the cacophony of a tavern
Subside the frayed minds and bodies in a Bloody Mary.
From the labour of a day now there is respite.
Set beneath an arc, alit some splinters keep the fire.
The baton has changed hands in the bleak of night.
My appointment sees it bright, the rumble is quieter,
But I let it not die.
In a while the hooligan will be back and baton shall too go back.
And then again when the barmaid disciplines the rummy,
I shall, here, by the arc keep the chimes.
And again love the night.
Crimson painted, bloody from the travail is the sky.
The ruckus and the rumpus, the clamour and the blare,
From a thousand noises now transposed to the cacophony of a tavern
Subside the frayed minds and bodies in a Bloody Mary.
From the labour of a day now there is respite.
Set beneath an arc, alit some splinters keep the fire.
The baton has changed hands in the bleak of night.
My appointment sees it bright, the rumble is quieter,
But I let it not die.
In a while the hooligan will be back and baton shall too go back.
And then again when the barmaid disciplines the rummy,
I shall, here, by the arc keep the chimes.
And again love the night.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Last Puff
In what elapsed between my breath and then,
When that Cadillac whisked the lovers away,
In what elapsed between a moment and then,
When the fog horn aloud, missed the bay,
I held you within.
That night when the clouds burst and went,
When that drop off the sill,
Dripped from my cheek to neck,
I held you within.
In that tiny spell,
A gasp of air as I drowned in my self.
For the briefest of moments we met-
You, my loneliness and me.
The last puff, one deep drag,
Ah! A sting, my lips;
And you too vanished in to the wet air.
Once again in the company of none,
I wished, along you had taken me too.
When that Cadillac whisked the lovers away,
In what elapsed between a moment and then,
When the fog horn aloud, missed the bay,
I held you within.
That night when the clouds burst and went,
When that drop off the sill,
Dripped from my cheek to neck,
I held you within.
In that tiny spell,
A gasp of air as I drowned in my self.
For the briefest of moments we met-
You, my loneliness and me.
The last puff, one deep drag,
Ah! A sting, my lips;
And you too vanished in to the wet air.
Once again in the company of none,
I wished, along you had taken me too.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
IT'S A COLD BLOODED MURDER
At times, death is a mercy and at other times, it is justice. In my case I should say it is both. Today this nation is going to be meted out with justice. My death is what she cried for. Here it is my last breath; if it has any character to it, it could be guilt or repentance or maybe neither. On a second thought, victory, it has a faint smell of victory.
I am Amal Kashish. I am a couple of years older than twenty, I am told. I am not contesting it. I am the son of a nation which finds itself in a deep well of failures today. I am destined to die in this alien land which would have been my home if history was scripted not out of men’s ego but out of their heart. I was born to a family of means nothing to boast about. My parents were truly the children of the earth, who lived and raised us, my siblings and me, with whatever it gave. By the time I was born even she, I mean the earth, seemed to have grown old and tired. All this beside the point, I was born poor. Often not realized, this is more than a reason to take up Jihad, the Holy War. There is another angle to it, money causes memory loss. Morality and righteousness exits your life when your door is knocked up on by riches. So I was born poor, luckily. It is rather a mundane angle, you would think.
Considering the previous lines of this narrative, I am certain that you have guessed what my career is, well actually what my career was. For the sake of record, and for the clarity of the more innocent souls reading this, I was born terrorist. It is my duty to rid this world of the khafirs. It is my duty to reestablish the faith. These were not exactly the words I grew up listening to. But yes, I have chosen to believe it. And in the discharge of my duty, I have done well, I must add. And now mind you, by this tone of sarcasm or cynicism or whatever, I am not trying to draw out a case for myself. I am not trying to prove anything, the least of all my innocence. I am not trying to be suggestive of anything else like we were also humans who would turn away in pain at the site of blood. Neither am I trying to succinct the fact that at times poverty is more devilish than one might think. No, it is my resolution not to be a hypocrite.
My deed, I would not like to go in to details of it. But the media has used the most savage sounding of adjectives to describe it. So, you might very well guess. Give or take a couple from the guess, you would still want to slice away every ounce of flesh in me, only after having me skinned and fried. But again so that you know that I know what exactly it is that I have done, I shot down fifty two people in frenzy. I only hope that a better portion of them were khafirs.
The hope has kept its promise. You might think this as my victory. Here is a caution – do not conclude so fast. You might not have been completely wrong after all, but there is a picture that I can see, see well enough and relish that as my true victory. Still guessing what it is? Let me give you another clue, your loss is my victory. Well of course, I did reap more heads than you did, but I too lost my brethrens.
All this is just rhetoric, eh? Hold your horses, not in such a hurry. I wish I too were shot dead along with my men. That was not to be. I had to be the face of the whole story and now the victory we won will bear my name. I made you all cry blood. I intoxicated all of you with the spirit of revenge. I brought out the animal hidden beneath the human visage you all hold. You might say I just woke the fiend within you. Yes, exactly, the fiend within you, which you could only hide. I have made you shed that feather of civilization, of culture, of principles. I have adorned you with all that you wished you would not be. I have made your hands bloody too. The apostle of truth and non violence and forgiveness that you say jewel your crown, now I have made you all mere hypocrites. I will have all of you relish my death when I walk the gallows, hands tied, defying you, yet with not even a protest, as I twist and turn for a gasp of air, I will make you all cold blooded murderers, savages. I have forced you to decorate yourself with all that you painted me with. Yes, now I have shown you the line between your professions and your action. Yes, you double faced, spineless hypocrites. I am proud of what I did. I win because now you despise me for I am not a hypocrite unlike you.
I am Amal Kashish. I am a couple of years older than twenty, I am told. I am not contesting it. I am the son of a nation which finds itself in a deep well of failures today. I am destined to die in this alien land which would have been my home if history was scripted not out of men’s ego but out of their heart. I was born to a family of means nothing to boast about. My parents were truly the children of the earth, who lived and raised us, my siblings and me, with whatever it gave. By the time I was born even she, I mean the earth, seemed to have grown old and tired. All this beside the point, I was born poor. Often not realized, this is more than a reason to take up Jihad, the Holy War. There is another angle to it, money causes memory loss. Morality and righteousness exits your life when your door is knocked up on by riches. So I was born poor, luckily. It is rather a mundane angle, you would think.
Considering the previous lines of this narrative, I am certain that you have guessed what my career is, well actually what my career was. For the sake of record, and for the clarity of the more innocent souls reading this, I was born terrorist. It is my duty to rid this world of the khafirs. It is my duty to reestablish the faith. These were not exactly the words I grew up listening to. But yes, I have chosen to believe it. And in the discharge of my duty, I have done well, I must add. And now mind you, by this tone of sarcasm or cynicism or whatever, I am not trying to draw out a case for myself. I am not trying to prove anything, the least of all my innocence. I am not trying to be suggestive of anything else like we were also humans who would turn away in pain at the site of blood. Neither am I trying to succinct the fact that at times poverty is more devilish than one might think. No, it is my resolution not to be a hypocrite.
My deed, I would not like to go in to details of it. But the media has used the most savage sounding of adjectives to describe it. So, you might very well guess. Give or take a couple from the guess, you would still want to slice away every ounce of flesh in me, only after having me skinned and fried. But again so that you know that I know what exactly it is that I have done, I shot down fifty two people in frenzy. I only hope that a better portion of them were khafirs.
The hope has kept its promise. You might think this as my victory. Here is a caution – do not conclude so fast. You might not have been completely wrong after all, but there is a picture that I can see, see well enough and relish that as my true victory. Still guessing what it is? Let me give you another clue, your loss is my victory. Well of course, I did reap more heads than you did, but I too lost my brethrens.
All this is just rhetoric, eh? Hold your horses, not in such a hurry. I wish I too were shot dead along with my men. That was not to be. I had to be the face of the whole story and now the victory we won will bear my name. I made you all cry blood. I intoxicated all of you with the spirit of revenge. I brought out the animal hidden beneath the human visage you all hold. You might say I just woke the fiend within you. Yes, exactly, the fiend within you, which you could only hide. I have made you shed that feather of civilization, of culture, of principles. I have adorned you with all that you wished you would not be. I have made your hands bloody too. The apostle of truth and non violence and forgiveness that you say jewel your crown, now I have made you all mere hypocrites. I will have all of you relish my death when I walk the gallows, hands tied, defying you, yet with not even a protest, as I twist and turn for a gasp of air, I will make you all cold blooded murderers, savages. I have forced you to decorate yourself with all that you painted me with. Yes, now I have shown you the line between your professions and your action. Yes, you double faced, spineless hypocrites. I am proud of what I did. I win because now you despise me for I am not a hypocrite unlike you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)