chimes of a forgotten melody

Edward Hopper, 1922 Courtesy : The Mag Every alley, an artist's chef d'oeuvre, Paintings made and unmade, Riotous is an ingenious mind, Incendiary when empty. A coffee ruthlessly motivates, Her hair - red, lusty, suborn, Loud as her enunciated amor, Eyes - hidden, lest you burn! Brain, cognizant by habit, Collects trivial flashes, Brush drips in the mightiest red, The red of unrequited dreams.

I used to embellish her hand, Sustain its glow - yet Not a costly ring, Not embedded in gold. I remember her friend's eyes as he searched the shop, And content; once he found the perfect gift - Me! Her cheeks turned red, The darkest of all red, His smile glorified me, Her kiss sanctified my being. She gave unsuspecting care, Carried me along like a child, Talked, caressed, laughed, I found the beauty of being alive! I am left in disarray now, Without her, nights are longer, I feel her pulse; still resound, Along with her goodbye. Her friend sleeps beside me, A wave of dreams torment us, Dreams of our wondrous days with the one we both loved!

The road ahead (dusty and barren), But with significant flux of change, Greenery remains lost in reminiscence, A Cadillac asserts the shift of paradigm. Yet the earnest mind fights, Each step is an uproar against distance, And each moment a destiny I write. The road ahead (dusty and long), Beside me nothing but my swansong, Above me clouds, stars and love, and In front a noble mystic waiting to be found.

Like colors are for an artist, Words for a poet, And dreams for a nomad, Her smile for me profound. Orchard turns saffron, Lights inside turn dim, Abruptness destroy grace, As I drown in memories.

Courtesy - The Mag The carefully stacked books and all the disarray leftover, Her clothes; still smelling almonds, The room - sour and bitter! A vivid screen shows smiles, Life - hidden unredeemed inside my memorial chasms, Where her body is laid to rest. Loss - dire and complete, Eats my perpetual joys, Mutilates my clarity of thoughts, And leaves me alone every time.

The repelling odor of ammonia dispersed evenly into the thick and humid air. Converging upon the public toilet were three lanes, one from the vegetable market, another from the bus stand and the third from the oblivious ardor of the 'Prostitute Street'. When Hamid zipped his pants and came out of the toilet he could have gone through any of the three lanes. But the choice to embark onto the 'Prostitute Street' was his ritual, a ritual he barely compromised on. On that day, visibly furious over an argument with his wife over some petty household mischief, he would have performed well on bed, he even would have produced the fury which his marital relationship lacked. 'I f**k her by habit', Hamid once divulged to his friend at the helm of alcohol. He said it with a derisive laugh which fit ever so naturally on his face. But today running low on money but certainly at the pinnacle of passion, Hamid walked the streets and eyed every whore with genuine yearning and...

A part of me bitterly dies! Solitude with Gabo was less poignant, Sunsets I shared with Aureliano Buendia Planted more revolution than my thoughts, Along the way Marquez's whores, his unrequited loves, And hi s inflaming passion became my own! Oh, when Marquez leaves behind his words, He leaves behind every deep thought, Every apt musing, every intense emotion, And every nostalgia words could bring, There is nothing that cannot be expressed in words, Certainly with Gabo you knew it was true. However I try to console myself, it just wouldn't suffice. The world has lost a legendary storyteller. And I have lost a person whom I loved deeply. I know that Gabo's words shall live on. But my universe has dropped into deep oblivion after his demise.