Sweet Love

Yes, there are pains other than the pains of love,
my dear, here in this moment, we are distraught,
the next moment you know, who knows we might laugh?
Yes, there are other pains in this harsh tyrant world
better keep our keeps inside and be distraught
It ain't so hard to give up all and be
inside out, i now dance and dance, you see.
around the squarish space within four walls
i dance, but--- don't let the neighbors know
and don't let them make you go
for they would take you to be the mad one
but they don't know that you know
that there are pains in this world
other than the pain of love
i sit now outside your dwelling
they say you were loved and so much followed
in all your glory, the skies you touched
and hey look, i am all distraught, and gay
with a smile that exhibits tears and pain,
in rags now i sit, outside your dwelling
i just eliminated me, for i wont be remembered
but i will remember the love you gave,
but then they say, there are pains
in this world other than that of love,
and until after death i will.

Her

Gabreila is a vivid woman, who aspires of great meadows in the far off land, and aspires of insecurities the purplish-ness of not-being-good-enough brings to her. They make her fearful and full of death-ful pain. And longings. And regrets. And categories. And classifications. Of people, their type, their disgust she so wants to follow, their achievements she so wants to steal.  But always retires she among her common folks, all smiling and full of life,  who take her on the back of their bikes, to solace and cool winds. 

Musings

What would you do if you have a kite that flies?
Would you mend its ways to tame your pain?
Or set it free to have its wire cut,
The one it owes to, all in vain?

Society's World

Being hopelessly practical in a hopefully impractical world
This constant flux, would one day tear me apart,
And left will be oblivion of silence,
That would come to me, with a surprised momentary lapse:
Wish that I could stay a Bit above this world,
Its tensions and pretensions,
Eating me away from within of what is mine,
Like a moth eaten, softened, aged wood.

Wish I could smile, my true smile,
And not through those true masks of tears.
Wish I could live my true life,
And not through the death by civilized norms.
I know I shall die one day,
But that is all I shall do for Death.
And for the living part,
I know I live through death every day,
But that is all I do for living.
~Sept, 20th, 2015.

The God's Design

It was a rainy one good morning when the cold breeze was truly new. And pure. And honest. She could see the history through her opened bus window. The bus danced on a rainy road, thrashing water's flesh into pieces that flew sideways. It made the bus seem like an angel with water wings. And water sounds. She had this perception that if it rained everyday in God's design of a day, probably she could have had free bus rides throughout her life. But then, it was merely a thought.
Things passed by with the blink of an eye.
A pan wala.
A banner with paan spits.
And bird's poop.
A hospital for Christians, with a banner that said: Serving Humanity to Make this Earth a Heaven.
As if it really mattered. As if people were really concerned with visualizing heaven while they are on earth.
As if hospitals had a way to transform smelly reality of disease into heaven.
As if curing a disease meant serving the whole humanity. Or maybe the whole Christianity.
Sparrows sat in a line on electricity wire behind the banner, indulged probably in a random discussion. They seemed like anxious females, their bellies swollen with news, ready to be spilled out into backbiting. A perfect session, where they would loathe others to love themselves. Maybe they were not there for any such thing. Maybe they sat out beyond and above on a wire, looking down upon at humanity in a line.
Colonial building peeked through wilderness of Old Lahore's greenery like a naughty and flirtatious eye wink. Sometimes a minaret. Sometimes a white pediment.
Sometimes a whole building with name like Bhagat Singh Haveli. Each building echoed aroma of each laborer who built it and each thought that was thought within its walls. But then, it was just a matter of passing by. On an angel bus ride. On a lucky rainy day.

I Find it Difficult to Leave - Should have Left a While Ago

There was stillness in the rooms of her heart, yet she could feel a distant and fragile frenzy of madness, which was being constantly repressed. and she knew what it was all about. she knew how it would rapture one day, and spread in her being like fear, just like ink drop spreading in water. 
she knew about her oxygen, its origin, and the fact that the mere feeble numbing of painful retreats and painful regrets and painful set backs and painful held backs were the mere cause of her beauty, her sanity,her humanity, her sense of morality. she felt the need to be battered and bruised and black and blue all the time, for the air to feel her scars, so that she could feel her small breaths just like big things, like love.
and so that she could feel things even smaller than her breaths.
like grains of cloth.
and the feel you feel when you touch it.
simple and simple enough things.
and she wanted her pains to be bigger.
simple enough a demand from life.
so to feel small things.
like her random moments.
and the moments of passing-byes.
and the moments of remembrance.
simple moments, of sun shines, terraces, stones walls, wood, mud, history and past.

Moments of Reluctance

They say that she went through centuries of mindlessness that all came to halt in simplified moments of passing-by. Autumn showed its magnificent past and went with the rustle of thin air in the backdrop. This is how it went with her life. Her strands of hair remained stagnant among tea smoke and window light and writing desk and fears so many, but the backdrop kept changing, with the blink of her eyes, the rustle of wind from purple clouded winters to magnificent sunny springs and haunting perspiration of summers. . Such were her moments of mindlessness when she was stuck down by lightening, the blow so hard she forgot the time. Was she in the time or was the time in her was the dilemma. The moments of betrayal and utmost pain. The pain that should die one day because it has already pained enough. But then, what else was left in living if not living with the pain of the pain?

I am Searching for Phrases...

I once was you, 
Was when you were loved. 
Now you don't talk so loud,
And do not scream about
The love that you gave:
What made me you

Gone are Those Days

It was only yesterday
that we longed for buzzing of ceiling fan,
but now those stones have been long replaced,
and gone are those days
when we were loved
among laughter and numerous hugs
that summer's sun talks no more
it blinks and winks with glory, no more.

the gray cloud has descended
like a dark shadow,
like a message with heaven secrets.
Feels like i am floating
over winter's smell,
craving for sunshine and light,
that maybe dwells
within the mistaken gaps
of foggy nights;
blue and purple days;
secretive and sacred scents.

It was only yesterday
and gone are those days.

One of These Days...

(all of a sudden, out from the blues)

Dec, 27th, 2015.

One of these days, 
You shall be a mere reflection
Now turned to dust,
and cornered with new layers,
of history in making. 

one of these days, 

they say:

creation is always happening,

and so are you constantly cornered,

your body parts dusting away,

glittering into the cosmos..

one of these days,

i shall find you,

among rose woods and green offshoots,

thick roots in my garden;

the silent sunless days

and foggy thoughtful nights;

the proud summer's sun;

and dramatic sea waves

which maybe are made,

with your parts that often prayed.

one of these days,

maybe you are in upper air,

your conscience making me:

your thoughts are my thoughts,

your cries are my cries,

your joys are my joys,

your tragedy is my tragedy,

your past is my past,

your life is my life...

why bothering for singled entities?

one of these days,

i was a part of you,

I once was you.

I was no more me,

I knew not me, but you.

'cause one of those days:

you were mine.

Summer's Sun

I longed for summer's sun,
and winter's warm sun rays,
In remembrance of sun that shone not today,
the absence of light, darkness is, they say.
It itself has no entity or say, 
no wander i felt that emptiness today.
wandered why for centuries my days were dark, I;
didn't knew the idea of light, that sunless day, I.