Kahani

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The ruins of the colorful day, lay barren on the silted sea
Shackled in all the stories–we all tend to leave
One by one, dot by dot
As if it all were free
The dances with the storm and the placid glee
One by one and dot by dot–we all began to flee
The stories we lived and the faces we wore
Facades we dealt with–the farcical attempt to be free
Thinking about the ocean floor and how much was the sea deep
Or how often did the blackbird come, to the love famished tree!
The cloudy sky below which, sparked the days of lust
Of which were a thousands of them–long forgotten glories
And riches which were buried long before the Sun showed itself,
The first and last time to the Moon.
Thus the ruins of a colorful day and all the stories we lived
Came to an ending, much of it already seen

Harekat

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The place between nature and humanity is serenity. It is that bridge where if we stand in bliss which is known as silence–we will feel the heartbeat of Earth. It is that crossroads which does not ask to be traveled..but just begs for stillness. And we often ignore the pleads. That is why we do not know that such a place even exists, where blue is a blur and green is a cloud. This place is where we find ourselves. Outside we find earthbound things. Then they fly past us. But we never hear silence talk

Glory

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When death ruled the valley of fear
Destiny cried for the misery of its dear
But they went to find the valley of the dead
And saw that fear ruled it with pleasure
Hidden away in a mortal plane
The immortal seized the valley of the fear
Only to find it was nothing but–
The death of the dear
One can see and one can choose
To keep the eyes blind
But the two valleys–out of them
One would win and the other persist

Dipatches from Living

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What do you know about living–
The man who died a thousand suns ago
The dancing and the grinning
The lights of the dreamy, dreary shows
The illusions in the darkness,
The light within the foes
What do you know of living–
The dead man from ages ago
Smiling and jeering
Coughing and sneering
The drinks and the drugs
Drinking the wine of shadows
Eating the fruit of deceit
The lustful faces of ghosts
The greedy turfs of the libels
The man who knew of living–
Yes, he died long ago

World’s End–The Most Beautiful Place Ever

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No one knows, but there is a place somewhere around in the hidden realms of this world–kept well hidden from the local eye. The eye which meets every other eye, which meets every other eye–the common eye. This place is carved out of valleys and shade. This place is atop the most high mountains. The most secret shores. It is a secret well kept hidden. Upon the lake where water meets the skyline and the Sun is born. And when it grows old, it disappears like sound of silence. This place is called ‘World;s End’ and it is indeed the most beautiful place.

Gold is not gold here, it turns into wisp–golden wisp, so that at every Sun dance there is a hue of gold spread in such a way which entwines with the dark only to make it more beautiful. Here light is not just light–but a magnetic and hypnotic force which makes one–happy. An emotion which was never found, always sought and often forgotten. You see, this place is the horizon of everything that was and will be.

Here love is not born. Hate is not bred. Here neither things happen and none are believed in. Love-hate; the lethal combination which are both feared and both so very common. At World’s End, there is nothing like love to e thought to felt and hate  to be known to felt. That is perhaps why this is the most beautiful place on earth.

Where the silver of the Moon breathes unto the Stars all the secrets which were never known to any one or anything. Here whispers just disperse and go about and here the Nightingales don’t sing but are sung to by the most mellow voice. Tears melt into the skin here and thus begins daytime.

Here the hollow voices and the vacant stares and the empty smiles don’t matter because here they all come to rejoice in the pleasant dark which seems so utterly magnificent–like soft velvet which amalgamates with silk.

This is my World’s End. I come here often, to sing to the lake and watch it turn into an ocean–with waves. Lots and lots of waves. This is my secret. Well hidden from the eye which sees the other eye which sees the other eye- the common eye.

Here i come by, in my solitude–which turns into mirth which turns into Tears shed by God. Finally all turns into vapor and disappears along with the smoke which emanates music–spreading.

Here, dreams dissolve but do not disappear. They take root, like the huge tree which gives life and shade. Rocks made of past—steady but pointy yet important. One can always stand on one and jump into the gushing waters and feel each breath as it folds and unfolds. The body struggling to catch itself. The mind–in control.

I come here often, at World’s End. Every time i come by, i see a world turning and twisting. Screaming and struggling. Breathing and dying. Dancing and flying. All of it, you name it, i can see it, feel it, hear it and….let it go. Every time i come to World’s End–The Most Beautiful Place on Earth– the world begins. Once more. Evermore. Always.

 

No. 265

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The tunnel–is a tunnel; the same for the train

The same for the the person hiding from the rain

A shore is a shore;  the same for the sea

And the same for the ship which has to be.

And time is time; for the one who is still

And the one who stares deep.

 Death is all around us

The living and the gone

The Riders and the Sea

Death is all around us

Life isn’t so much so.

The difference is the same; same for the stones

And same for the skin and bones.

What do we know and what do we care

The questions will be questions; for the answers

Answers all feared.

We never stop–and we never begin

SO what is the difference

And what do we care.

It will go on and on and on

Even if it stops–what will be the difference

Between what is and what isn’t.

For the world is the world; the same for the strong

And those who do not dare.time

The Birds Grew Wings

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birds

There was no denying–that the merciless cage only,

Prevented the Birds from soaring up high

Following their rush, up in the sky-which they love.

There was no denying. There never is.

There was no shame–when the cruel master,

Had taken the wings…taken them away

There was no shame.

There was no pain, when the Birds would sing

Not in melancholy, but in vain

Not in forgetfulness but in ignorance

Of the bliss in flight.

There was no pain. There always is.

There was no wonder–that what would happen

If the Birds grew back their wings

Would there be rebellion?

Would there be flight?

Would there be a reason?

Would they remember?

There was no guilt….

The day of the storm–when the wind blew down the cage

When the drapes kept swaying

And the bizarre light kept flashing

When the Birds lay forgotten

There was an escape.

A flutter, a hop, a swing and a flitter

And a swoosh….

The Birds Grew Wings

There was no ego..in their flight.

There was no pride.

There was no remorse. There always is.

* * *

The Birds soon discovered–their wings,

Had always been with them.

They had just been forgetful,

Of wings and flight and the sky

They blamed it on the Man.

There was so much anger. There always is.

* * *

The Birds flew in a sequence.