chimes of a forgotten melody

Image : 'I hate humans' Courtesy : bendragon.blogspot.com   Buried in a self created grave Where the world lay in deep sleep, Between undiluted wrath which Pours pangs of targeted grief, Our habits are allowed for torture. What we retrieve as memoirs are Uneventful days of passionate dreams, When Eros flew around to spread a Golden weave of lust, to entrap Our innocent thoughts and poison It with a dark potion of grudge. As the poison spread, we fall Into a trance devoid of charm, Which we later coin as a slip Towards the gorges of love, But what the mind let pass, Is the slow death of a comrade. Can we cipher the unwritten Words out of our past? Could we pen it down like A poet? Maybe then we would Glimpse the grave where we lie, and Rediscover our thoughts before they die.  

אחד Dear God, It is not that I need to say, But my heart is not giving a way, You are the one who knows it all (Cause after all you made it all), Meager is it to converse on me, When you are the architect of Each and every one of my cell. Sometimes whilst I sleep, I see Lights that blind me with radiance, I feel my head shake with violence, I hear the sounds of an ebullient bang, Then I see me flying like a drop in the night, A whole world of people join me, We settle near our homes in a bubble. Like all dreamers, I wish to know What it meant? Hope to hear a reply. With love and account, A fellow born out of your hand. שנים Dearest God, It is only after I ceased the anxious Spread of words last time, I realised I never knew whom to send to (Never have I known where you live), This is why I kept it beneath a statue of Christ, Which I am sure you would have got. It is to be noted that I never got answers, Maybe some an...

India celebrates her 67th Independence Day today. But for me, Independence is now reduced to a word. We are still bound by rules that makes us dependent on a government which cannot be even termed democratic. The great Indian Parliament has forgotten the days when it functioned properly. States are struggling to be split apart. Some struggling to counter natural disasters, even more waiting to be falling into the list. Curfews imposed in various parts confuses one with the mere notion of freedom. And then we have a group of politicians accusing each other and campaigning for a distant election. It is true we have made flee the British on this day 66 years ago, but still a long way to go for us to be free. Independence is a state of mind, It is challenged on counts of thought. Brought about by an Eastern notion Of scurrying the Queen and her zest. Like a married Indian woman, freedom Is forced to remain silent. To remain unknown. Break out of the though...

Unguarded thoughts pierced his existence, Tales of eventful passions, lost loves, Miseries of hate, lust and hunger continued. Impoverished streets in his mind was Tormented with winds of revolt, but Easier was it to remain inert, to let The weather clear, to remain the same. Each night when peaks of love was forced Onto his meager heart, he thought of the saint Who came to talk to him during his sleep, Who said, "Peace shall come from within". A storm was nearing his mind, An apocalypse always leads to calm, Like bullets to head do calm a brain. Ghazals were staged in his dreams, Wails of a sorrowful harmonium, with The broken voices of an aged singer Agitated his flesh and bones, he sang Along with the singer, they mouthed words That praised a fading God in the midst Of frauds that wrapped the weeping Earth, They praised the Lord's benevolent soul which Gave life to buds, tunes to birds and love To children, who wer...

A recurring dream tortured my mind, Standing by a momentary library, Where poems I hated to write Were preserved for eternities, stained By my narrowing vision, I read them and wept.  I was a quill the next day,  I floated around in a master's hands,  Obedient and flawless, I scribbled words  That remained meaningless for all, And the dream brought me closer To redemption. Soothed and tortured, I became a Poet again, I flew the streets Stained with blood and hate, Where sweat spewed mercilessly On paths where imagination Once passed with royalty. I am the quill again, with a subdued Hue of fetid ink, I write my own Destiny. I stop me from loving, I scribble that I were an introvert, I write that I shall forsake happiness, That I shall forever be a poet.