Voices

Yes, they said that the cities were broken
And dust had gathered on our window sills
The voice of Freedom shrieked–until the cities began to reek
Of decapitated agendas and ideologues, their fairy-tales
Which they all hummed in a chorus
And those who heard, clapped and cried
They chanted of dreams together
Until there were none!

The cities were left burning
And the crowds had gathered outside
In the open field where ideas were bought and sold
They were there and they were watching
And they laughed and danced
The voice of Rage, was impaled
They screamed of ideas together
Until there were none!

And dawn had come and it had gone,
So night lingered on
But the voice of Silence was muffled
There were Messiahs, only too many of them
And there were slaughter houses, only too many of them
So all gathered under the sky
They prayed of wars,
Until there were none!

Yes, they said the cities were dying
And that people were drowning
While all the Messiahs failed to salvage,
The dying voice of Reason
Yes, it was all true
And heroes were born, and then they died
Again and again, into the abyss
Until there were none!

Shor Ka Sanata

The orchestra fills the air, with a hundred different melodies
And the nightingale sings a forlorn song in the still night
The crowds chatter away, even the empty road has something to say
Millions of miles away–the stars tell stories of death and fire
The neon rain falls and breaks the silence
Two shadows linger on in empty bewilderness
They have no where to go and no place to hide
They talk over each other–there is commotion
There is frenzy and an odd disillusion
The Settlers from the Sea–they are lost once again
They cannot find the waves–which crash and broke them free
Two shadows—cast away from the stillness
Into the broken seals of silence
The two shadows–they lingered on
In noisy streets–where Silence secretly roamed
One which they could all feel

Parion Ka Shehar, City of the Fairies

The purple city lights, we could see from afar
As we ran towards the unknown, fragmented land
With green statues of strange faces–we would never meet
And roads made of orange glitter–so we can run all day long,
Away from the broken, dismal dreams which we never meant to keep
And we ran wild within the unknown, retro land
Where the rivers were golden–so we can swim all evening
And break free from the deathly pale glances
Of wooden people, like dead twigs or broken down trees
Oh that giant red velvet building
From which music played all night long–
So we could dance and dance and dance
In the shadow of the pink opaque moon which could never sleep
How we danced in the unknown, neon land
Turning our backs away from the figures which brought us doom
And under the silver sun—we stayed forever
For it was our turn to clean away the white dust from our feet
And we were all alone, we were all alone

Jasmine

The painter sleeps in a room without colors today
And the writer looks outside the window–just like every other day
What is it that makes the world go by in such a twisted way
The red room smells like jasmine–because she picked some today
She saw a fleeting ship–as she stood by the quay
The clouds and the commotion fill up the air–intertwined in a dismal play
It is harrowing because the people all seem to have gone astray
Their faces have a numbness–their dead arms swing and their legs sway
Even today, the caged bird has forgotten to fly away
We all sat and wondered about the doomsday
How our shells will become numb once more and our faces will turn to clay
Yet the painter sleeps and dreams about the blurry bay
And the writer looks up at the sky and questions it–just like every other day

Hawai Jahaz Ki Sair

Let’s jump on the earliest plane
Which takes us everywhere until we’re no longer in pain
And we’ll never look back in hopeless shame
The pink sky never looked less insane

And we’ll get lost in the fuzzy lights and pastel thoughts
Of purple mountains and yellow streams
So let’s fly towards the blue sun today
And let’s dance on the orange moon tonight

We’ll visit the tall buildings, you and I
And lay on the wet grass
Looking away from each other, you and I
We’ll laugh until it rains

So let’s jump on the earliest plane
And disappear together in the silver terrains
We have everything to gain
Yes we have everything to gain

Pandemonium in the Sanctuary

In the brilliant hue of gold

With the dreams bought and sold

And in the shabby bed, which was not very old

He wouldn’t sleep

Oh he wouldn’t sleep

Because he was never this cold

Since he no longer had himself to hold

He’d seen the pastel mountains-

What great stories they all told

And he couldn’t sleep

Oh he couldn’t sleep

His last cigarette in the ashtray had turned to mold

In his bones and in the rust his skin’s fold

Were tales which fate foretold

And he couldn’t sleep

Oh he couldn’t sleep

Soon the last song will end but his agony-

Never consoled

His visions, all of them barren, lo and behold

The love he found and lost–forever outsold

So he couldn’t sleep

Oh he couldn’t sleep

Pomegranate River

Maybe it was a river of pomegranates and not tears
Maybe the earth did crack up–like the black broken wings
Swallowing her inside
And maybe the seeds tasted like love
Or perhaps, there was something to long for under the rubble
So does Persephone wait to return,
Or does she wait to come back
And does Hades wait for her to come back
SO he can have her, and then can recoil back once again–
Into the suffering he has been cursed with
Do they break away once they break down
And did She break him like He broke her heart
Maybe it is all a false memory of deceit
Of an affliction which neither knew of
And maybe Spring longs for Winter
As Winter yearns for Spring
But there is nothing in return
And nothing is lost, but everything is lost
And that is what the fall is–an evil act
Of prayers which mean nothing

The river was of pomegranates which tasted like love

Faqeer, Beggar

Beneath the statue of the Old Beggar with a hundred lines sculpted on his face
I sat like art–waiting to be created,
I–who had written all the stories
Of the fires which had burned the town hall
Where the dancers would do the silent Waltz
And of the blind man–who saw everything and heard nothing
Of the women–who sang in chorus, of love which was not meant for them
Of children, who stopped playing because of the scars
Of the sculpted swan, with its ugly broken wing
I sat there like art, waiting to be drawn
I–who had heard the choir boys singing
While the Woman in the green dress had repressed a smile
And left the room–for she was torn
Because she had come from nowhere and had nowhere to go
And she slept in the dingy streets with torment under her sleeves
But I sat there like art–waiting to be designed
For once, long ago–I had lost my way in the ruined valleys-
With empty houses and unbothered streets
So beneath the statue on the Old Beggar with a hundred lines-
And an expression of solitude frozen on his face
I sat like art–waiting to be composed
For I knew all the stories, because I had written them all
Of you and me, and me and you
And I sat there like art–because
I knew of all the endings, right from the very start

Adha Afsana

On the Silk Canvas–were stories painted in gold
Of purple clouds and pink dots in the sky
And cherry colored fountains where people came to–
Throw the yellow coins, and make wishes about forlorn times
And the Painter would stand by the window and glance
Over the shifting blue rocks–from beneath the arid ground
While the silver bird–would often swing by
And stare at its shadow–which looked like that of a broken man
And now and then a hundred unknown faces
Would stare inside the glass door, and find a pungent silence
Hovering over their heads
On the Silk Canvas–were stories rotting away
Of orange doves hanging by strands of black threads
And orchids of grey fatigue tied with white ribbons of defeat-
They arrive at the doorsteps of a brown house made of clay sheets
And the Painter would stand by the glass door and glance
And shut himself away, recoiling once again like a frigid tapestry

 

The Collection

Pale maddening day or was it a yellow dot hidden in grey
Frigid tapestries made of rotten clay
A glass menagerie of a dead horse,
-another of snake hunting for its prey
Voices were heard–but from so far away
As if there was a thunderstorm–or perhaps it was a fray
Between fractured hearts and dismal, impatient–
-and dreadful travelers who had lost their way
The sound was perhaps music–the same one we heard yesterday
My horrid and senseless shadow followed me around today
Only to merge with the insipid reflection in the mirror–
-on the unholy wall which will fall any-day
And you–the relentless, looking for a hidden message–
-by a broken, hollow man, you too shall move away
For he is just a wisp who cannot move but only sways
A burnt moon which has nothing left to say