Love Won’t Let Us Give Up

 

Chasing smeared promises

of an armistice in this commotion

I fought blankness in my words

and the ease in giving up crept inside, somehow.

 

Living on a boat, stuck in a frozen lake.

Conversing with the emptiness in my ears.

I saw mammoth towers of strength sink quietly.

I saw power of existence give way to reality.

 

Still, there was a willingness in my dreams

and a last leaf of hope you had given me once.

Holding on to the doors of a personal connotation

was this last verse, waiting,  for me to still write.

 

Yes, I believed in the “me” you once told me about.      

I remembered when you said

that if there would ever be a forever,

you and I would be still in love.

 

So, I jumped into this tomblike dark space

and brought the fight to the moments of despair.

They wounded me with their blessed corruptness

and I choked the last bit of air out of them.

 

Then you came and carried away

my scarred cradle of skin in your prayers.

When I thought it was all done

and the senses of my clock were half seized.

I woke up in your arms.

I woke up at home.

 

 

My Spirit…and My Soul

Crafted with sanctimonious beads of bliss,

your heart seeks the hints of enchantment.

Inclined to host moments of togetherness.

To hold an adore – auspicious and unprecedented.

 

Silken tresses of graceful metaphors; and

sketched panoramas of irresistible serenity.

The blood in you flows with grace unbound.

Might in your words so absolute of amenity.

A life desired with assumed speck of contentment,

nourished with your aura and rays of presence.

The conduits of unfinished chambers of time

need the embrace of your celestial essence.

Captivating the luminous drops of empathy,

all the ache you hide, with a ceaseless smile.

Dreams follow up so far from perplexing realities.

Still, besides you, eternity rests for a while.

I don’t wish to be lost in the murky expectations

by holding on, too tense, to the sands of heaven.

In life, I chose whom to love with all that I have.

Congregated – my spirit and my soul are akin like none.

 

Translation Of The Unsaid By The Unspoken

 

In a world lost in translation of the unsaid,

the spoken truths are hidden in the

smoke filled chambers of this ghostly existence.                                      

The self deprived worthiness of untamed greed

with the crawling reticence inside the hollow self,

dethrones the love of its persistence.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Consciousness fails to create a conscience,

chasing a soulless shadow of uncut memories

bound with the strands of adulterated past.

Hope makes the skin go numb, gently,

inside the abyss of the desires and deeds.

Forever Love – but how long eternity will last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I tasted the blood inside the pain,

purifying the intentions behind the hurt.

The end seemed more of an awakening emotion.

The me in you is the me I am, undead, still.

Share a heartbeat with the tremors inside me

embracing the core of the unspoken.

Loved You…Always Have…Always Would…Forever

“Lonely nights…

whispering moon…

gazing stars…

haunting wind…

hurting thoughts…

waiting souls…

desperate love…

eternal life…

the same me…

in YOU…wishing…praying”

A Perfect Life…With You

Nothing I can hold onto
everything just passess through me.
without your gentle touch
I am not the man I wanna be.
Can’t see  shining or dark
things in front of me.
I live to feel your breath,
closer to you, I am free.

I don’t wanna live forever
but I wanna live it with you.
I don’t know what my God looks like,
but I know he lives in you.

 

I know what forever means.

I lived it,
when I loved you.

The Little Zunaid

 

12 year old Zunaid was wearing new clothes today.

In the crowded market place, which was also referred to as “The Heart” of the city, he felt as if time never stopped. Some years back when he had come with his Abbu (father) to meet a distant relative, his juvenile mind simply found it difficult to release itself from the awe of this vivacious fête. The trams and the cars seemed as if bulldozing against each other on a busy track which, so magically, went serene at nights. The skyscrapers were astonishing and the old buildings were humbled in time. He had seen toys which could speak, jump and fly. He had seen so many people who just seemed to be in hurry of reaching somewhere.

This time, it was all different.

As he slowly walked past the bustling cloth market, he looked at the new clothes he was wearing. His uncle had given him those. He remembered what his uncle had told him, “Wearing new clothes gives you an opportunity to introspect and clean your soul. Wearing a clean soul gives you an opportunity to be close to the almighty.”

His naive mind could hardly grasp the depth of those words but he knew that the almighty was the most powerful yet humble soul who writes our destinies and is even to all.

His mother used to tell him about how a life of hardship would test the heart of a man and bring out the gold in him. She was not a literate woman but she had the knowledge of religion, culture and traditions to the purest. She never criticized anyone or anything. She would tell Zunaid that anger is always the cause of a man’s peril and one must inculcate self control and must always appreciate even those who hurt him as it would help his perseverance to grow.

He loved his mother very much.

He had left her about three months ago.

Since then, he had not spoken to her even once. In his pursuit to become a man his mother would have been proud of, he had left his home to walk the path leading to ceaseless glory and redemption. He chose to purify his heart and let his conscience decide his destiny. The terms of his happiness had been modified from being short termed to eternal.

…and happiness for his mother was all he desired for.

Zunaid had reached the place where he was to start his journey. He had been reading verses, said to be spoken by the people touched by God himself, since three months. He had concentrated all of his confidence and will to prepare himself in standing out today. If successful, he knew that he would be initiating an association in the hearts of so many like him back at home, who remain in awe of things which everyone here, in this city, just can’t find time to admire.

The time had come. This was his time.

Zunaid closed his eyes.

He thought of the warm hug of his mother. He felt her gentle voice calling his name. He smiled.

………

………………

………………………

News At The Hour :

An unidentified suicide bomber kills 47 in “The Heart” of the city. A nation mourns.

Zunaid’s mother never got to know what happened to his son.

But she was proud of him – forever.

When Your Blog Bleeds for You

Yes, I do write whatever my infinitesimal existence in this colossally feverish world makes worth of. I lure myself into a stage of life where people should get impressed by my gender, humble verses, pain, smart thoughts or struggles (all in alphabetical order). I seek warmth. I seek companionship in handling what I have created. I seek appreciation.

So, what is so special about Blogging exactly?

Blogging has got a soul. (The straighter – The better, I guess!!)

What the obsession of Blogging has taught me is to be myself. I don’t have to imitate anyone. It flows. The art of Blogging is not defined. You do get a platform to start. But how you whittle your aura is solely up to you.

At some point of time your blog would start reminding you of who you are. You could be a different person to the superficial world. But once you enter the luminescent hallways of your blog, the poignant glockenspiel of your thoughts and recollections would summon up the broken, shattered or just misplaced pieces of your identity and give you the courage and space to reassemble.

If it helped you, it would certainly help other. Just keep the faith.  

It hurts bad to see people start with the ardor and guts but slowly and painfully give away a passion. I have seen many blogs, well arranged, energetic and beautifully woven, come to a sudden, unexplained end. Perhaps they accomplished what they ever wished for through their words and pictures. Perhaps they lost the impetus to fight everything that broke them. Perhaps they graduated to a different echelon of self consciousness. Perhaps – they just gave up.

One thing that seems true is that we won’t be Blogging forever. These wonderful and humble forewords with self would, one day, simply become faded impressions on our invigorated heart. We write to seek, express, share and connect. This journey is full of hope and infatuation of creating, following and recreating – the themes, the words, the pictures or the person himself.

And your Blog would never hold you back to a certain anyone that you were. It would let you go and seek not even a corner in your heart. It would always love you back. Why?

Because…Blogging has got a soul.