Stories of the globe never begins with birth,

Our lives are but a silent prologue to a show,

Which is an imperative destiny; we dance to

The tunes of nature only at our deathbed!

The horizon of existence never ends, whilst

Our perplexed soul sees curtains fall, it is

Only for another chapter to be presented forth.

Awaken to the reverberations of love, glide

Along the waters of friendship, snuggle beneath

Blankets in a perception of security, and yet

Disrupt the mind in the absurdness of solitude!

Life is as such, maybe to confuse us to take it

Seriously!

No love joins us after deaths, feelings separate,

Wreaths get burned with us, sans the smell

Of the flowers. It gets stolen by the funereal

Procession, along with disoriented nostalgia!

All equations remains unmatched at death,

All tedium grows into a silent delight,

We lay awaiting destiny, and our pact with

Life remains incomplete. So we wait,

For our final cells to grow into the roots,

We all die, We are all born again,

But not with an artist’s perturbance, but

With a leaf’s placid calm!

In a table of disoriented colors, the pawns

Were carefully stacked. White, black,

Then the few red ones he himself designed,

He made squares with cold accuracy, he made

Them white, black and some blue too.

Without the faint notions of anger,

He started his war against his opponent.

Against him sat an artist who commanded

All squares. Within his incredulous logic

All pawns tasted freedom, within his

Arduous commands, all knew reason!

But the board was his, and he held

The moral command. He divided all

Pawns according to the color they were,

He took the reds, as he gave them the

Privilege of existence. An outrage of

Colored war meant reds had a leeway.

Blacks fought whites, Whites fought Blacks,

Its in the nature, he knew. The dead pawns

Were hoarded in squares of blue,

A force of red removed the survivors from rue.

The king, queen and a set of guards stood erect.

The bureaucracy never fought, he knew,

They remained trapped, spellbound at

The deaths. An enigma of fear spread,

The opponents sweat dripped the board,

He looked for once at the board maker’s eyes!

It glowed red, as red as the pawns he made,

He had a command that none could defeat,

He had a power that even he couldn’t conceive,

He held with him no threads of pity,

Within his heart held the key that guided hate.

His submissive group tortured the king and the crew,

Monarchy is dead, they shouted out!

They killed the kings, black and white,

And raped the queens, black and white,

The horses were slaughtered and put in squares

Of blue, the bishops sided with anyone,

Who bolstered them and their meager lives.

The opponent was mocked and cursed by him,

He marched on around, and squares were made red,

More with blood than with paint. He gripped the ambiguous,

He reaped at their unrest. He slowly entangled minds

Between his board of accurate squares which was now

All red. He slowly closed the board and entrapped

All squares and colors. He bestowed an iniquitous laugh,

The opponent walked away in mourning, while

He ascended, to be exalted as the new Grandmaster!

A vague attempt to capture a small thought that occured in my mind. Here the opponent is God, or rather the love that existed in mankind. The new grandmaster who defeats God/love is the one thing that controls the world now, MONEY! A little more images used, I believe you could pick that up without me explaining. Again I am not sure on the power of delivery of the thought.

A harsh wind blew across the burning field,

It untied her hair, sans her own knowledge,

Sweat mixed evenly with her tears,

Yet the hands never stopped its destined motion,

It endured the wind, the Sun and the life.

The hay that fed on the Sun’s angry fever,

Rested lifeless on her head, she poached

For all her resilience, took it out and placed

It above the stuffed up hay. It clouded her

Thoughts so that she never saw her husband

And how he were as alive as the hay.

It never moved her mind to see the uncultivated

Fields, the waterless canals, the bottomless wells

And the endless Sun. She saw it all in her beloved’s

Pale eyes. It hugged her each night, and its warmth

Betrayed her and her eventful plans.

Last night the eyes forgot its hug, rather, it made

Her cold. All the years of being loved seemed

To be lost in the deep labyrinths of solitude that

Laid before. She saw herself planted in the fields,

A lonely crop that no one cared to water.

No one carried coffins of the peasants,

No one cared to grant them a peaceful rest,

With the shovel, that granted seeds life, 

She gave her husband a loving goodbye.

Before the harsh winds blew and the field burned,

The shovel dug up a hopeful canal, and the stacks

Of hay carefully carried, busied her quivering mind,

Her hair, carefully tied by her beloved was undone,

It swung along, with the melancholy winds.

Abstract : The Color Red

We are seeds of the same flower,

Carried by wind to poles apart,

Time brings your fragrance,

The spores bring your love!

We are tunes of an unwritten song,

Playing endlessly on and on,

With the memory of each other to

Keep us by, and no words to disturb

Our plights.

We are the dreams of a child,

His agonizing fears, his deep love,

His beautiful garden, his solitary cradle,

His toys, and his oedipus wraths.

We are memories waiting to be made,

Memories of guilt, memories of crime,

Memories of sorrow, memories of love,

Memories that nostalgia ignites!

We are half drunk cups of coffee,

Cold yet waiting to be consumed,

Useless and beyond all hopes,

We usually get flushed out.

We are a poet’s funereal thoughts,

Which he could never pen down,

Yet in his dying cells, we live on

Undisturbed!

We are souls that meet after death,

Forced to live apart when alive.

We meet after the pains and tears

Of each and every lifetime,

And when we meet we hug till

We are born again, and for that

Eternal hug, we live a life!

During his last years, Daniel decided

To speak about life to his only son.

All along the tide of life, he galloped,

Sometimes tall, sometimes meager,

In an infinite cycle of pain and smiles,

He always met doors that led him about,

It was about doors he wished to speak,

Doors that open onto obscure turfs.

His words never held the aura of youth,

Yet his eyes intended to portray zest,

He neatly wrote whatever occurred inside:

‘Son, there are doors all around,

The dying ink!‘

Indeed with those words Daniel opened

His last door, which presented Light!

It must also be said, he helped his son

To open his first door onto a fresh expanse,

That was filled with a different Light

I.

The sparkle of raindrops

Glorified the lotus.

She bathed in the warmth

Of the morning Sun, enjoying

With every ray that shower life.

A commanding motion of love

Filled her fragile petals as she,

Gave prostrations to another day

And its radiant shine.

II.

A deer surged over countless rocks,

Within its powerful limbs rests

Life and hope. A menacing predator

Smelled the luscious odor of flesh,

The predator and his survival rests

Within his own limbs. In a battle

Of force and speed, one fights

Hunger, the other fights Death.

III.

A man walks out to meet his love,

He is greeted by a hummingbird

Swiveling up and around, though

He do not see the passing birds, nor

The sanctified Lotus. The predator

And his inevitable prey is a part

Of a world the man shall never care.

Clocks tick, he waits.

I remember the silent spread of napalm,

And how the flesh were slowly cooked,

It never took a foul lot time, to see

Another war that builds itself free,

We are but an advanced breed of life,

And what we yearn for is evolution.

The stringent laws that holds men

In a surreal cage, provides them with

Their daily share of a promised diet,

But who cares to be free? We are born,

We die. And the path to death is life,

For a wholesome diet we sell our kins,

Amidst the show, who wants liberty?

The war is in the horizon, and weapons

Are the slaves’ brains. Untouchable,

Unknown and Unclear it remains the

Most poignant. Thank God I must,

Napalms shall no longer boil flesh!

Of all the things evolution has promised

It gave a level fight on a level ground.

So, what caused you to unsettle?

Is it my words? Or is it the truth?
Is it my mockery of the world?

Or is it the knowledge that you are

A silent part of the next war?

Whatever remains the reason, do not

Spill. Because evolution demands your

Silence. Stay Calm. Keep at war.

Viva la Evolución!

Rains

Are memories 

That shatter around

With the cold resonating dawn.

Today it is all but the same

Each drop hit the Earth

And artfully breaks

Into countless

Moments!

Drops

Are savories

Of a forgotten time

Carefully blended, and clear.

Each drop lines my window today

Singing their stories, of

Love, war and plights,

And waits for

My hands’

Caress!

Artist

Is he who

Mixed the falling rain

With the delicacy of the drops

And this night indeed

Portrays its skill

In Art!

A sadistic raven flapped its wings around;

The monument that build itself about

Grew forever in grit, power and height.

It held a camp of deficient minds brooding

Over what was lost in the holy fight;

Lives, luxury and inevitably sanity.

They searched for torches in the monument,

One fatuous guy prayed for light, The raven 

Knew the Sun was up, she slowly came out.

The guy was called a preacher and the raven

Became a concealed God, she was fed, loved

And worshiped for bringing light.

Soon the croak of the raven echoed in

The monument, it filled the chores,

It filled their senseless lives with an allusion.

Sadism raced through the raven’s blood again,

She ate out of the children’s plate, she

Pecked at life that threatened her place.

But it was the wrath of an angry God,

No one dared to counter its flaws, And she

Flew on about, unharmed and untouched.

Monuments are all around were ravens

Rule men, preachers are even more who

Claim to hold the raven’s wings in their altar.

Myths are monuments that men build,

Ravens are Gods that moved life,

But are you a preacher or a follower?

A subdued aura of emotions gripped the place,

Her eyes never gave away to the inevitable moment,

She carried herself around, as graceful as ever,

While her heart, were sewing groups of burning cells.

I watched her frazzled face glowing with the Sun,

Her words were inaudible with the moving flux,

She held my hand, tight, as if she was holding on

To a rope that may help her out of her gorge.

I never knew what her words conveyed, It may

Have helped her if I understood, but for now it

Floated around my head, but never pierced inside,

Like an artistic hunter, it was waiting for the right time.

She embraced me a final time, and it seemed clocks

Stopped for the love that she held, to flow gently

Onto my heart; I held her close, and with a stroke

Of pointless hope, I asked her, ‘Will we meet again?’

‘When the moment beckons, hearts meet here,

When you hold love that keeps brimming out,

Do not fret any long, like how spores from a flower

Fly all over to meet its destiny, we shall too’, she said.

Now, the hunter holds his knife close to my heart,

The winter that my heart passed through, made me callous

The knife of the spy, was shifted into the pen in my hands,

And with its ceaseless ink I wrote my ruined story,

O, and I wonder, how a scrapped story got her adept name?!