Friday, December 12, 2010 . 10 comments . Posted in General

I think we think alike
In despair or delight
For long years; lone
Further glow; shone
And I see you nightly
When the day is done
Once the sun goes down
For the dream to grip
And the time to slink
Through the bare lane
Upon the gush of spurt
Until the end of its urge
For I feel we see same,
Oh, my lovesome mirror


The Symbol

Thursday, December 12, 2010 . No comments yet . Posted in General

Once there was a bridge that lured these hitchhikers. And the lane towards the west stooped upon the reflection of their shadows. Each of them had obsessive blot of silver linings. Like a chain of lightening tattooed across the sky. I do remember the relics of laughter. But the picture portrayed on this shale had a startling symbol.  All the promises revealed in it had happened to the hitchhiker. I remember the first day I met her, and set her as my only love in a dream. I knew she had a fondness to the roses. For I knew they had thorns – but it was worth it. Every time when I used to shuffle off in this hall of mirror space, I saw myself broken into pieces. But – there were roses shattered along with me in each of them. My journey was in between a lane to another. And the wooden bridge is all I had to cross the blockade.  As I turned back the pages in a log that I treasured close to my heart, I found a silhouette on the 27th page…
It was a wintry dawn. The day the flowers in my lawn refused to leer. They stood alone, soaked beneath the soil where we have come from – and go to. My spirits rant. They don’t pant. The symbol on that shale had a tremendous brunt. And ever since I discovered it, amidst the barren land, above the platoon where angels resided, I longed for a new beginning. Today, I remember the lane that lured the hitchhikers. And the wooden bridge dangled like a ring to the hills. For all the time spent in a hall of broken mirror space, I, and these roses craved for the same crescent face in my heart. And it beats like a child’s first taste of freedom away from his home. Do you know how it appeared to me? Do you see the symbol? As when my mind wandered across the sweet sorrows of yesteryear, I heard the distant hymn of a child. She sang a sweet song in her sweet voice. And it lured me. All I knew was that, the place had a forsaken church. And the wooden bridge was the only way to get there – to worship the grand saviour, in a place where the angels fly so lo and nigh. That silhouette… That silhouette on my log and the symbol on the shale had a similar meaning… And it guided me towards the wooden bridge once they used to hunt for… For it used to haunt all…
Today, I stand upon this bridge. The wooden bridge… And the rose flower that I have got in my hand is for her… It’s just a bridge away… When the clouds pour, and the breeze move the haze afar, I’ll take a huge step… to cross the bridge… And I still hear a sweet voice from the other side… Where the angels fly lo and night… For I should have known a long time ago that… the symbol was her love…


The Ninth Lane

Tuesday, December 12, 2010 . 3 comments . Posted in General

The monarch of Roman Empire rode on his steed
Through the ancient dream; once left in sadness
But the unknown loam led him to an awry byway
And it sent shivers to his cold bones; flimsy spirits
For the framed mind never firmed at the crossing
So it cruised towards the downhill, down the dale
For he knew his princess would stay; at ninth lane
And he sped across the sleety silver stream; uphill
To find the mystery lane; stretched lower the sky
For he chased until the sun gave way to the moon
And upon every twigs lingered a furtive message
Through the dark hills, towards the ninth thruway
And his steed sped to seize his dream; his fair love
Amid all the vantages; around the twelfth hour
When the night slept away, and the dawn arose
His heart whispered of her unwearied waiting…


Music’s On

Tuesday, December 12, 2010 . 1 comment » . Posted in General

It was a Christmas Eve. The winter had seeped into the lush, green city in and transformed it into a mystical white haven. All the twinkling stars upon the trees had given colours to the ghost white snow and it looked as eerily enticing as it covered the ancient street. The roads to my house were wet, yet I pined for a bright night within the dark night.  The deep iris blue sky showered, inch by inch to buff the surface that was dry, to reflect the gleam of the lights from the rusty lamp – posts which lined the slippery streets. At every corner and turn, groups of musicians belted out soulful tunes which merged with the season’s festive grandeur. The haunting beauty of the city had lured many drifters that night. I was one among them too.
I belonged to their world…
I am a drifter. A drifter with a song… But I am not a musician nor am I a singer. Yet, I had a special song. For a special someone…  That song had my heart in it. Every time when the common folk at the inn insisted that I sing that song, I used to look with my big brown eyes, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the face which held me captive. Her lovely face had a lonely tale. A tale which stems from her cocooned upbringing… All her dreams revolved around within those walls. Four walls……Sometimes she felt she could hear her heartbeats echoing under the wooden roof of her room. But, ironically, she liked her room for here; she could flee from the cares of the world and weave dreams of freedom.  Then one dawn, she was awakened, disturbed, from her sleep, for she felt her vision rebounding on the walls, and lured her to the stage where ‘he’ used to play.
‘He’ was ‘I’.
And it was a Christmas Eve. The day we met. She was dressed up in the most beautiful red dress – to me. Red.  The colour of passion… The colour of my love…  Her sapphire eyes sparkled and radiated heat enough to set my heart on fire. Her smile rooted me to my spot; I was unable to look away. Her hand raised in a half – wave to me. I ran my fingers through my hair; it was a habit; an exasperating one, at times.  In it, she read the art of chaos. When the crowd moved in circles, finding someone to dance to the music that we played, I found my feet walking effortlessly towards her. Her name was not known to me. She was a mystery. But the pretty child turned back, and smiled. In her, I realized with astounding clarity, I found my love.
Years passed by….summers melted in to springs and those, in turn, gave way to many winters…
Today, as I turn back and take a stock of my life I see these musical notes, the faded posters, and the colourful scribbling on my wall… It seems like they are all urging me to sing another song. But for whom? For my love? But where is she? Where did she go? For all the years spent in this dim lit room, I had buried myself within million notes that patiently waited to be sung by someone, I sat upon this wooden chair, searching for my specs to read the line from a bunch of letters. ‘Hope’ is the most beautiful word in my dictionary. For some, it is “Love”. But I had always been an optimistic child. ‘Hope’ paves way for ‘Love’. My dreams were never complete without filling the empty space that I kept for her. She knew it. Did she? I doubt it. But never did I doubt my love for her. Look at me, I’m full of chaos. All the adventures begin when we seek for the right person at the wrong time.
And then, I found this letter, from a stranger. Perhaps, she wanted me to know how a stranger could fall in love.  She was a stranger to me, for I knew not even her name but she alone possessed the key to unlock the torrid of emotions locked up in my heart. But she knew that I was her only love. Then you ask, so have we met each other? Have we spent quality time being together? No. In fact I knew it was a big NO. When the rains fell so slow, through my window pane, I remember her, because it rains in my heart as well. Her pretty face… and her intense eyes… her passionate smile…
And that letter had a word. Hey you, did you ever read a line twice before you act? No. Now, the time has come… It’s Christmas. And I know… I very well know that it’s been fifteen years since I have laid my eyes on her… But I am a drifter, a dreamer. My job is to dream. And I deal with it if it doesn’t come true. But I don’t give up hope. For, you see, Hope is the most beautiful word in my dictionary.  I am not old, but I am just forty. This Christmas, after fifteen long years is very special to me. Because I’ll be playing for one last time… On that stage… the same old stage… that stage where I saw her for the first time… the same old song that I sang for her… Where did she disappear? The clueless scenes floated in my mind. But the letter beckoned a bright ray of hope. It fixed a smile upon my dry spirits… Today I will get my answer…Today, the mystery will be solved.
And I got dressed in black… And got myself prepared for the big event, the grand finale… It’s another Christmas… The winter had seeped into the lush, green city in and transformed it into a mystical white haven. All the twinkling stars upon the trees had given colours to the ghost white snow and it looked so eerily enticing as it covered the ancient street. The roads to my house were wet, yet I pined for a bright night within the dark night.
And the world looks so beautiful tonight… All the colours I know have been sketched across with that word… The word… that word…
And as I walked through the backstage… to perform… the song that she always loved to hear… I looked with my big brown eyes… to soak… to feel… the love she sent my way, fifteen years ago…  And from afar, I spotted a petite head crowned with auburn hair,  I held my breath and waited for it to turn….and it did……and the face which gazed upon me with awe had an undying smile and her sapphire eyes sparkled and radiated heat enough to set my heart on fire. Then I knew… and she realized it as well, with astounding clarity….that dreams never fail…


Sweet Child

Monday, December 12, 2010 . 1 comment » . Posted in General

Macy, take thy poor child for granted
His young cold blood bleeds in gloom
But he has hoarded love and concord
Nor did your eyes seen, or ears heard
Macy, why did you kill your poor child?
His pale face, sore eyes know no pain
But he has put a wish to the mankind
And they pierced his chest, ah vicious
O Macy, why have you betrayed him?
Like the prickle thrusting through in
Like the darkness clouding around in
O Mother Macy, why, why have you?
Weep, O Weep, he is dead, just dead


90 Seconds

Monday, December 12, 2010 . 2 comments . Posted in General

Once, a beautiful dream weaved its infant in my sleep. And it lived for ninety seconds in my sleep. I was twelve years old. But the picture it portrayed was of a seventy year old hangman’s. His job was to hang people. ‘Death’ was his only disguise. He wore his proud mask to commit his brave job. They say, ‘work is worship’. They add to support the very same lines with, ‘Every job has to be done proudly’. The pole that was kept alongside the fort had many victims. Every heart pounded when he ended up with many lives that way. That was poignant. And he wasn’t really ‘proud’ of what he was committing.
I met him at the edge of the town a decade later. He was then eighty two. He nearly lost his eyesight and his voice was hardly heard.  “Hello, brave soul, I remember you”. I said. He stooped on to me and whispered, “Have I killed your spirits?” I replied “Yes, once”. And he nodded with his bravest mask and shuffled off towards the east where the west touched the shore, to bask and see his life for one last moment.
Everything you do has its emulate. For all the time spent in that cold shell, struck by the paintings, and the blues songs, he held his heart close to the box that she gave him long time ago. The moment of freedom occurs when we pursue what we love. His love gave birth for many paintings. Paint the wall, the dry draft from the north comes to soothe your soul. He heard it, felt it, and copied its waves with those canvases. The box… That box… That black box had a letter… The only thing in that box was a letter… A white letter written with blue ink… And the note is incomplete… The ink must have run dry. But her heart was on it. She was his special friend, the one who whispered fairy tales to him. They dreamt together, and woke up every dawn with a lovely smile. He was in love with her smile. There were then no blues songs. The nightingale as she sang for him every morning. When the shaft swept the street towards their stay, thrusting warmth through the pane, they rose up, with their endless love.
A sudden fall of distant ray diverted from his thinking. His eyes shed tears. He felt good. The shore is crowded with strangers. And the grand fort lured the hitchhikers. The gates to the entrance has been locked and sealed. No one is permitted to witness the mighty pole that hanged many people. Its stood up on that stage, like a devil, to lure and squeeze the wanderer. Even the sun dies away when it appears behind its huge clock. Time is life. Life has nothing to offer beyond time.  Stay away, step a step back, or sideways, but stay away. Echoed the spirits surrounded by the rock made fort.
Once, a beautiful dream weaved its infant in my sleep… It was “I”. And he hurt my feelings in my sleep, in my dream’s dream. I was ‘He’. And the dream was incomplete… The dawn has led its way to the dusk… The shore has buried the sun… And the moon has come out from its shell… And the pole… The starry pole… That stood up on that stage and has become history… And the way to the hangman’s house has been glittered with myriad stars… And he, for once, smiled for the very reason that he cried… He is free… Free from pain… Free from his proud work…
And the moment he stepped inside his house, and opened that black box, the letter… Her faded lines… Memories… And the background music from his rusty radio, the skies poured inch by inch on his roof… For the letter said, “Remember, When I am away, you are so close to my heart…”