29 Sep 2017
Nine
twoninezeroninetwozerozeroeight
and what a nine!
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twoninezeroninetwozerozeroeight
and what a nine!
Comments (1) Trackbacks (0) Permalink
and then it begins to crumble
the wall that you had built
giving it your years of tireless labour
dreaming of it by night
laying brick by brick, by day
and when the wall was complete
you sat there crying
running your numb fingers along its finish
for, it was your dying hour
home became a mere metaphor
when the boys grew up into adults
and the wall aged
soaked in rain, it gathered moss
they will never know
how glad you will in your grave be
if they fain touch the wall
such is the life after death
but now, the wall is crumbling
because someone somewhere
pulled a brick and crushed it into sand
such is the tale of neglect
should the wall be put up again?
but what crumbles once crumbles again
and again. and again.
and again. and again.
till you forget how many again times
it has crumbled;
till it gets tired of crumbling
or dies. again.
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two cups of hot tea
lay on the table
as if they whispered to each other
they issued faint smoke
she picked up his
and walked to the window
that looked into a pond
through the still, cold water
moved like a knife, hamid's naked frame
bearing the traces of love
that her nails had made
she held the cup between her palms
as she would, his face
and brought it to her smiling lips
fate cannot be always kind, though
the looking-glass will break
and its racuous laughter
will cut your reflection into pieces
so there in front of her, hamid, her life
and in stealthy silence
barely fifty feet behind, her death
"there's no place safe
when men cry for war", smirked the captain
looking out from the war tank
and nodded, "do it!"
"but she is harmless", said the junior
"blow her up!" - the captain
--------
"noor!" hamid cried
but the house
that stood on the edge of the cliff
was razed
embers of the rubble hurt his feet
"noor!" he cried
but neither blood nor bone could he find
burdened with ash
he ran into the forest
to search for her footprints
and all the trinkets
that adorned her body once
and fell into the secret corners
when their fingers played
the games of love
but the snow pulled a blanket
on the leaves, fallen and green
on the barks
weary and tendermost alike
on the smallest detail of the roads
he was the only spot
which moved in that frozen landscape
every tree looked same
sullen, hiding in the drape of white
afar, the horizon dissolved
spreading the pall of gloom
he ran like a lunatic
caught in an absurd maze
only to find nothing
fine as a razor's edge
grief cut him in two
nothing was naked anymore
in that forest
save his anguish
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he just frowned
or smiled
it was unclear
when she asked
how the winters,
ten and more,
had passed
her fingers,
still as slender,
curled into the handle
of the coffee mug.
his fingers ached
she asked again,
now smiling,
about the winters
would those lips
taste of coffee
or of the sweet longing
of all those years
he won't know
in this winter of life
what tales could he have
of those winters,
without her, lifeless
so he just frowned
or maybe he smiled
it was unclear
but then life
etches its tales
on your face
in wrinkles fine
and each wrinkle
hid a tale
that he will -
when all light fades -
whisper to her
in silence
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i hugged a tree.
on my fingers
a butterfly perched briefly
and then it flew
fly away it did,
i thought
with its tender wings
it flew, and flew more
across the seas
and thousand miles
the hour was quiet
in those woods deep
it found the tree
that she was hugging
and, it then kissed
her svelte, gentle fingers
oh, and in my heart
i felt a flutter
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crimson dusk fades slowly
as the dying murmur
of the restless waves
a gentle breeze from afar
ruffles my hair
i think it's her loving fingers
as the breeze leaves me
my heart flies off, too,
along with her
the clouds are gathering
blurring the distance
and i smell the rain
on these feeble sands
my infirm feet tiptoe
and my fingertips dance
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of the shade burlesque
awake in mute gray
the walls won’t talk
and she can’t hear
ripped from time
he lay still, cold
as a buried dream
unmoved by her tears
she caresses his toes
they tickle no more
a silence so haunting
fate’s cruel laughter!
“dad, where have you gone?”
she whispers, almost
but then, life is so
a vile trick of time
when she was born
his life became fuller
and in his death
her life now, lighter
“what is this, dad”?
she asked, in a moment past
pointing at the title
of a book he loved
without his saying a word
she now understands
what it means:
“the unbearable lightness of being”
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As if it’s a golden rule, we blindly associate strategy with success. So much so that we don’t even acknowledge that those who fail have strategies too. Strategy has nothing to do with success or failure; it’s a mere plan, a wish. Nothing more. You can have an impeccable strategy and yet lose, or a loose one and yet win. You are playing a game with many loose ends, and not pushing a ball into a visible hole.
You will rather smirk at this if you are a successful executive leading a unicorn. For you don’t want the world to know you are being paid millions for just playing dice. This doesn’t have to be so. Take credit for the move (which is, no doubt, a function of intelligence), but not for what shows up on the dice.
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from the table afar
beckoned by a brief glance
she smiled at him;
a moment so joyful
it effaced all time,
all the years
and every minute
they parted for
a fate so cruel
they part every time
if they meet as lovers;
a destiny so kind
their paths cross
as if bound to,
if strangers
they pretend to be
so they vowed
in whispers quiet,
silent and unspoken,
that they shall
meet as strangers
so familiar
they need not utter a word
but yet
she was afraid
if he has brought along
the past –
a bittersweet secret
that only they
(she and he) know
but his hands were bare
bare as the agony
of a longing
that still burns,
a longing
that they never let
to their fingertips
or the unkissed lips
at midnight hour
the day before
he walked through
the stooping corridors
of time
through the burlesque
labyrinths of memory
through the crumbling
walls of dreams
and hurled
into the deepest woods
that precious secret
at dawn
as it lay frozen
in a stray nest
a squirrel stopped by
and ate it fine
the restless eagle
finished the remains
so his hands were bare
he doesn’t need carry
the weight
of the time gone by
he can now see it all
in her eyes
which, with one glance,
melt both
the dreams that were
treasured in the past
and memories
of this evening
he will take to the grave
he smiled, too
but said not a word
for, what if
it will, yet again,
invite the wrath
of the brutish fate
she stood up
and briskly walked out
before even her fragrance
could waft along
his bearded cheeks
minutes later
as the fumes
of unshared coffee
felt the two empty chairs
all one could hear
was the deep sigh
of two hearts
that belong
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imagination
makes love
to memory
and a thought is born
consensual and timeless
always
is their act
when they have an orgasm
the baby becomes an idea
that surmounts
sibling rivalry
and stands the test of time
when climax is feeble
the baby, blind,
becomes an ideal
that drags his brothers all
into killing fields
the two inseparable
lovers never marry
therefore
the children are born
out of wedlock
a few you abandon
some you abort
and some you rear
and those you rear –
they, in turn,
rear you!
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