Breath, breath,
O portrait black,
With blind eyes do whisper,
Laugh now, whilst the paint is wet,
For once the lines are cold,
And the hand of reason stays,
Your smile shall freeze,
As you would cease, to exist, to evolve,
For on the threshold of perfection,
The mirror reflects no more,
But resigns in destitute,
Having been deemed futile.
The tree with a thousand branches,
Fell down one night,
And all who looked upon said ruin,
Despaired at the loss,
All but the woodcutter who nodded sagely,
And fished out his whetstone.
Look beyond,
But no farther than the walls which guards you,
For then the scene changes,
As all you would see shall voice,
Their own tales of tragedy,
Till those screams vaulting freedom dies down,
And the silent catacombs stir awake,
In ash and dust,
Raising ghosts that would scale the wall, this wall,
To take shelter by your hearth,
And of all those who shall heed your reminiscence.
If Illuminated the spectres, will stand,
Looking beyond,
At the flames lighting long horizons,
Towards a new path, towards a new world,
Yet unknown and unchanged,
Awaiting the distant dust of their march.
O Witness, who saw true,
O Descendant, who braved,
When you tousle the wordless shards,
Know that the mirror then would reflect neither the stillness of time,
Nor the ember notes of progress,
But would turn opaque, uncertain,
As is all that resides,
On the other side.
For it is by the brink of one’s eye,
Where the blindness begins.
The Traveller halted,
And half raised his fist,
To set the grains in motion,
Whilst the shells of bone,
The erstwhile whisperers of century long steps,
Stood rooted in envy,
Too fallen, too fell,
to know that they have indeed arrived.
For many a filthy centuries I sobbed beneath the moon,
For many a happy festivals I saddled away in gloom,
For longing days of endeavour I traveled in my yard,
For countless nights of feinging flights I fell, and fell down hard.
The freedom of my Martyrdom, thus can be ever sung,
When the swinging of those dead resounds the chapter hung,
And the drizzle of Golden virtue drops upon thy land,
While cursed faith of red blood stains my crystal sand.
In the past of reinging dark I fumble on my way,
In the realm of harping larks I mumble what I must say,
By the mud of cleansing sages I must wither down my curse,
As the final act of men I did and did rehearse.
Autumn breaks,
And I am waiting, at the station,
Perched by a bench,
Beneath the sign boards, and neon lights,
Eyes on the gentle curve,
Of the rails,
breathless.
It’s been ten years now,
Since I wrote this words,
And you are yet to come!
Most well written poems,
Don’t mean anything,
They are but broken words,
Stitched together,
To mirror perfection.
Fear not O angel,
If your wings are cut,
You can live among us,
As human,
Only to learn in time,
That we are not so different after all.
Soldiers, soldiers, my fellow men,
Why you so blithely sit,
Round the corpses catching fire,
Soaking it’s valiant heat.
Tempt not those circling vultures,
Feed not those saints in black,
To barter the pride of might,
For the courage we so lack.
Remember, do you, my friends,
The dread as trumpets blare,
When the land is alive in madness,
And the blood is in the air.
Through embers and the ashes,
By the gleam of bones and teeth,
We marched on land and water,
In search of victor’s myth.
Say now, cry not, you brave and bold,
Hold up your head and chin,
The deed was done in battle,
And in war there is no sin.
Oh god, our father, see how I mock,
Your beloved and righteous creed,
Send down thy prophet early,
We have none left to lead.
O worthy, worthy, men
O brethren of my birth,
How oft have we been blunted,
By truths of this lying earth,
I thus cannot, and never again,
Pick another shield or sword,
So I can walk this world in search,
Of a blameless, nameless, Lord.
I ask you now, I plead you thus,
To stand now as you stood,
And find a path more worthy,
In the light of this pyre lit wood.
Go mend your boats, my children new,
Go unfurl your freedoms sail,
And wave long to this horizon,
In a final farewell.
If only the world would sing a better song,
I can contemplate dancing,
In rhythm, to watch the color explode,
And the sky rain down,
black and white,
So that when I waltz across the floor,
I am no longer alone,
And no longer mad,
But just another one of those, strangers,
Who fell from heaven,
And decided to stay.