...

The only allegation I would not be able to give my consent to, is that whatever I write from this day is personal. My emptiness alone fulfills my fulfillments. I cannot afford to say that I am anything near being broken. That would be too egocentric to be for what I am slated to go through. Some part of me has died, the rest is also struggling and a new death is born. I remember an interview of Angelina Jolie where she explained why she always likes to be in black attire. Her reply came like - black symbolizes death and she remembers death very often but only to rejoice and bathe in the colors life offers. I was thoroughly impressed by the elegance the reply carried. I wish I could follow the opinion more. Intimacy with colors somehow doesn’t suit me. It has always smitten me. I need those colors more to cogitate about but seek solace in darkness. I know it is not to be feared from. But I write this as I sink deep into my fears and this shadowless darkness, the murkiest of its kind. Such has been my agreement with brightness that I will always offer it such distinguished contrast that it never gets to show up a speck of doubt, however minuscule, over its piousness and luminance. I am deeply wounded that I tried to breech into its brilliance and made it dim for the while I lost my ominous self into it. Now I return to myself, my own dense darkness. Hope it accepts me.

.

.

.

dil jalaenge
ke ab Shama bujha di humne
lash umeedon ki
ashqon mein baha di humne

taaron ka bhi tu malik
ye chand bhi tera hai
phir bhi meri qismat mein
duniya ka andhera hai

ab mere safine ki
manzil hai bhanwar shayed
sahil ke qareeb aa kar
toofan ne ghera hai

chal maut ke daman mein
aaram karein aye dil

is duniya mein ab koi
tera hai na mera hai

taaron ka bhi tu malik
ye chand bhi tera hai
phir bhi meri qismat mein
duniya ka andhera hai

My Green

No fine picture could I make
But wished it just for goodness sake
For ages I had dull colors
For me to paint and so rehearse
But in finesse I did lack
Blended more of white or black
While making some I liked a lot
Silhouetted portrait or a broken pot
My gaudy glee often fraudulent
From little far looked very repugnant
Sorrows patched by my patchy eyes
Danced in veils with my catchy lies
In a dull dusk by a stagnant lake
My still image showed me the rake
A zephyr passed low on its own
Ripples on me then brightly shown
Resurrected my non lucent beam
With brighter colors in my team
All patterns then got quietly changed
My cottage then in daisies fenced
One day I met a turquoise blue
Sharp and bright and uncommon hue
Somewhere in it a magic knot
With sadness some happiness fought
An endearing yellow then aroused
From my depths where it was housed
Then slowly fondled their streaks
Like smiles on two timorous cheeks
Such richness in color and appearance
How joyful is its silent eloquence
In words I fail to say what I mean
Such is the aura of my lovely green.

A Dictator

There used to be a dictator,
but nobody listened to him.
Still there lives a dictator,
he only listens to his whim.