Her Eyes


“Eyes are portal to the soul.”
If you ever feel confused, or unsure,
and want to find out if you’ve really begun
to fall for someone,
then just ask yourself this…
how much you adore your beloved’s eyes…?
Enough, to dive deep in them and
make the world inside them your own?
Wish you enough, to see what they see,
what they reflect, what they rise and fall on?

My friend, told me that…
But I for one, never knew how one can ever describe the eyes….

I mean, how can you do it?
You gonna define its color…?
You gonna express how they shine…?
You gonna fall for its shape or its size..?
Or you gonna describe way they close and reopen…?

Like, what possibly any pair of eyes can do differently
that would make them stand apart
from countless others belonging to similar species…?

And then one day it struck me…
I knew one pair of eyes, perhaps, more than I knew mine.
It was the day I realized, “I know her enough…”
Too clichéd, yeah? I asked my self the same…
But it wasn’t like I fell for those beautiful gems,
right the moment I gazed into them.
It took its time. But to be honest…
It wasn’t fair, from beginning to the end.

I think, it’s really impossible to ignore
the raw beauty they possessed,
after all…

How could one possibly ignore one that saw the pain
like a sky mourning for the Sun after the rain…
Like reminding us, how often we don’t appreciate
worth of something until its far too late.
Eyes that would not just mourn but burn
the Sun within to set things right the way they can…
Applying herself like a dawn of hope in dark nights
of those who’d rather wish to sleep
forever under blankets of numbness post pain
than remaining awake to heal and change
for what’s left still, what can still be saved.

How could I have escaped the effect of eyes
that were inclined to see something positive,
something worth saving and cherishing
in every soul they ever met.
Like a sprout of a fragrance that leaves from the flowers
irrespective of whose surrounding they engage.
Eyes that saw things based on their intensity, their essence,
no matter caste, creed, color, background, ethnicity,
social status, or religious difference.
Like a wind tending the garden, touching all the flowers
with the love and grace, without splitting or grading them.

How can one turn an eye blind at way her eyes would see the world
like a living orchestra constantly producing symphonies…
Way her eyes would manage to see and read something to be learned
and kept as a part of soul out of even catastrophe…
Like her eyes would know exactly where to look, to find
a voice in silence, to find expressions in stoic and music in noise…
In totally bland and apparently common things of life,
that we tend to ignore trivially… they discover sense and poetry.

I think I can define…
Its color…? They’re rainbows and butterfly mosaics combined…
in a way that one can never keep its full spectrum confined.
They give life to world, leaking warmth in seams.
Its shine…? They’re an ocean with sparkling glitter of skies.
Reflecting both the golden hues of day and moonlight’s silver gown in night.
They give hope, they speak of light.
Its shape…? They’ve a shape of the sea shells, enclosing pearls within,
they’re made to carry even anomalies, that can emerge into exquisite.
Its size..? They’re limitlessly deep… pathway to the cosmos,
way to the galaxies, deep and wide than anything ever seen.
They give intensity to those who dwell just on cursory or surfaces…
And way they close and reopen…? Well, they keep themselves open like wells,
to contain the wishes, to encapsulate the moments, the vivid dreams,
moreover, they open like the wings of angels… determined to help spirits.
And they close on like the gates of palace and castles, saving everything inside,
from those who’re unfriendly and intrusive. Who try to malign a soul or mind.

I just love the way they sees things…
And never once yet it happens that they rise with a pride
or drown with keeping an air of numbness or vanity…
They are curious like the baby’s, wishing to know more and yet
as still and weary as an elderly’s piercing the hides to dwell deep.

Yes, I know from her eyes, that I love the world
that she inhabits in them, all that’s read by them,
world that these eyes reflect on,
but above all, I love the way they convert pain
into something positive,
way they forgive, way they rejoice, way they stare deep inside,
way they make one realize…
there’s more to world then what meets the eyes.
I do indeed, love her eyes…


– Dedicated to the beloved’s eyes… (this poem is an ensemble piece of several small poems written on same theme).

Image Credits:
1. Soul Washout by Clarisse Litiatco (Deviantart)
2. Colored Eye Drawing by Kate Louise Powell (Pinterest)

La Douleur Exquise


This time, she visited his doorstep in veil. She found him happy like she always wished, like she still prayed, like she thought of him as right before passing out each night. This should have made her happy — but actually it didn’t.

It was like a gardener watching own garden from a distance… Watching plants, trees, all flowers flourish, right the way they’re supposed to, but still without presence of one who perhaps did everything to make it happen. Whole pain was centered around a singular moment, when whole world comes to a halting point. That aura of strangeness engulfing, feeling alienated to something you always considered yourself a significant part of…

She stood there still, watching him with a constant gaze, like he’s her’s still, but just behaving strange. She’s expecting a glimpse of torment. How come he be so happy, that his eyes are not yearning for her face… For all the happiness he can have, he was perhaps not allowed to be happy this much, that there’s no sign of agony for void she left… It’s often strange with women, they start to doubt their worth, for not what man’s going through, sadness or happiness, but when it happens to be without them.

The dream she weaved, had perhaps became a reality for him with someone else. No lament could compare the one where you don’t know you should either be happy or sad.  ‘It’s different, it can’t be’, she assured herself, as she watched him getting into his car. He fades from her sight, just to get more engraved in her memories.

Somewhere at the distance, the late grown lilies were watching grey clouds, floating far from them, they had missed the spring.

His car was standing outside the park they used to meet daily, where they used to read poems to each other, such young hearts – like all the art and literature in world was a sky and they were birds floating together and freely in it…

He’s engrossed in a book, that suddenly his hand reached the right pocket of his jacket, to pick the cell phone out, he read something and just started smiling, he began to admire the world around like some tree who had got a glimpse of a new spring. He soon re-engaged himself back in to the book he was reading… Book’s cover read: “Kafka on the Shore”.

He lifted his eyes again to watch in distance, something he noticed but didn’t pay heed to mere few moments ago… A silhouette of a woman standing alone, completely firm and still, like those statues in a cemetery that often relate more to alive than to the departed… He shifted back to his book again, but then in very next second, started to type something on his cell… pressed a button, looked one last time at his surrounding, and then left the park, driving his car far from it, leaving book he was reading right on the bench he was sitting.

The gusts of wind, played with the book, like it was their’s. They had its papers fluttering into rhythm of a thunderous sky, it was hard to know who’s complaining who.

In his car, he read the same text again….

“We can’t be together – forever, but God knows I wish you to be happy forever…”, it was her last message.

He opened the side window of the car, for his eyes to converse with breeze… He can pretend to be a happiest person in the world in all public places, but he was certainly a fail to copy the same in solitude…

His fingers traverse his cell phone, to open a folder of draft messages,
“Everything would become possible, if we’re together, forget all your fears, just be with me… ‘we’ can make it forever!”, the last draft read.

He presses the button, but not to send, assuring himself again, “she knows it already… she knows she has to make a choice… she knows there’s not a thing in this world that I won’t do for her…”

The wheels of the machine, were making sure he was reaching somewhere, but it was hard to figure if it was a direction, once wished.

“We will create plaques here holding our favorite poems…”, she once said to him in a park, not knowing, how it would come true…


– Dedicated to all the possibilities and impossibilities that we create ourselves, just to put up a fault in stars for them… “It’s never over, when you know, you’ve no valid reason.”

This piece goes along with a poem, posted few day ago: “The Yearning“.

Image Credits:

1. Anaïs Nin – Potrait
2. Stillness by Eckhart Tolle, on a Park bench plaque, facing Sacramento River, Redding CA.


No One Dies

Love is like a bird imprisoned in an open cage... - Bano Qudsia

Love is like a bird imprisoned in a cage open. – Bano Qudsia

No one dies for missing the love, I assure you.
They’re right. It’s an exaggeration.

“I’d die if you gonna leave me…”
“I can’t imagine my life without you…”
“My heart will stop if you won’t be here…”

Total bullshit!
Who believes in this anymore?

These notions of bookish love…
Plethora of emotions copied from every fantasy
we are fascinated with…
Every love story we have ever read or seen on screen…
Every poem of love we inspired to recreate in reality.

All lies…! All exaggeration!

Yeah, just not mention any name
that remotely resembles the one
I don’t wanna remember…
Because that sounds like an echo
without the presence of walls.

And for all the pictures alone,
don’t make me care about
the gap
that can be filled.
Because even I am absent from there.

Don’t make me listen
to the songs we heard together,
Also make me forget
the poems that by heart,
we remembered.
Because it feels like being in a ball
without a partner.

Don’t refer me the places,
we used to find ourselves in,
real or imagination.
Don’t remind me of things
that we wrote to each other.
Because it feels like dreaming
without presence of the colors.

Don’t ask me ever of things I loved,
but left keeping tabs on,
like some fantasy series or story of love,
or some novel profound,
we submerged our eves in.
Because loving them alone,
feels like a betrayal.

That’s all. I’m good.

Yeah. No body dies. Just the moments!

And for all the time when I’m with someone,
just distract me from comparing,
how otherwise it could have been…
Because I rather not choose,
to cheat with them or myself.

No one dies for missing the love, I assure you.

But see, I have no shame,
no remorse…
I much prefer this dying
than dying ever in a regret
of not giving a chance altogether
to something that was potent.

Given a chance again,
to dream again,
to fall in love again…
I’ll do the same!

Since making self numb…
might protect one
from the pain,
but bigger loss would be
missing a taste
of a worthy effulgence.

Yeah. No body dies. Just the moments!

– Dedicated to the love, one that comes, one that stays, and one that leaves… The poem is also dedicated to a short story I recently posted: “A Stray Dog“.

Art/ Image Credits: Screen caps from a film, Nicholas Sparks written novel adaptation “The Notebook“.

Poem Being Written

This poem is a response to Aminah Tasleem‘s very intense piece…  “Be my poem, I want to write you.


“As you write to me… I’m a poem being written!”

Book not “unread”, but the one buried being hexed – marked cursed.

A book torn apart,
of whom each page is scattered,
for no consolidation later.
Unless by the One,
who shred it
in the crime of passion.

Letter not “undone”, but one that’s burned right after the reading.

A letter, written in symbols,
of whom each alphabet is ciphered,
for no comprehension later.
Unless by the One,
who wrote it
under intoxication of love.

Rose far from the “book”, but from the bouquet left on the grave of foe departed.

A rose with stark color petals,
of whom fragrance is dispersed,
to never be captivated by beholder.
Unless by the One,
who planted it
in soil of worth.

Pearl not “cryptic”, but a rock under erosion due to an affair with the ruthless motion.

A pearl so transparent,
of whom nothing gets filtered,
to ever be possessed by the hunter.
Unless by the One,
who shaped it
with skin of bewilderment.

Cloud not “dark”, but fog so light, lost in air, mixing with dust storms of desert.

A cloud made of unseen radiance,
of whom light remains unparalleled,
ceaselessly overwhelming the witness.
Unless for the One,
who orchestrated it
with sound of explosion.

Ocean not without “Sun”, but one that has absorbed the star and is now burning with-in.

An ocean full of star dust,
of whom each particle is lit with fire,
drowning those who want to swim.
Unless for the One,
who set it blazing,
with enlightening smile.

Wanderlust not seeking a “guide”, but one that’s seeking to be lost in the wilderness.

A wanderlust on the path of expansion,
of whom each way leads to new indulgence,
engulfing those who seek some place.
Unless for the One,
who creates the labyrinthian,
whirling around the effulgence.

And being one missing already… like an air from the planet, I request observer to move on, to search a base with life to inhabit.

Missed are the ones, from there place,
who set their eyes on the illusion…
Missed are the ones, from the very moments,
who come to know the truth behind the appearance.

Think of me – I’m verse being remembered…
As you write to me – I’m poem being written!

– Dedicated to two opposite dimensions that reside with-in single entity: Personalized pessimism vs. Mystic optimism.

Image Credits: atilazz.deviantart.com

Lover, infidel;

Lover, infidel;

Lover, infidel; To pray or to foray?

In the times when priest asks one to confess,
drifters drink along, peddlers urge to foray.
I encountered tranquility in the solitude,
shy – she was; nor was I bold; guess we met halfway.

Passing whole day remembering the days of past,
“What treachery did I do, when did I betray?”
The magic your smile casted on me, moment I saw you…
curse on these dreamy eyes that always gave me away….

What not the bells and chimes sing me whole day…
Yet it’s echo of your heart beat that stills my day…
Running out of beads in a holy string now…
how much more for you I have to pray??

Don’t you see I’m tired of performing all these chores?
For none could ever return me what you’ve taken away.
Summon all your gods; summon all your deities…
ask them each, “To whom they gifted my soul’s say?”

All those stages, shackles of hierarchy, chain of commands,
Order me whose hand to kiss now, in order to find your way…
Have shown my lines to all soothsayers in the region,
line once they said had your name, has now faded away.

For years the land is barren; clouds and rains long gone…
pity me who keeps wondering when dryness would go away.
Sheer optimism and happiness when am observing the signs…
or deluding thyself? Like bliss would ever come this way…

– Dedicated to betrayal, both man led and natural.. to what becomes a reason for us to loose someone very dear.
Posted before at: My Facebook profile

The great refuges: Suppression – a classical conditioning; Censorship – an indispensable tool

Suppression and Censorship

Suppress and Censor

Welcome to the animal farm!

Yep… Good going.. Ban YouTube, Ban sites, Ban Torrents, Ban TV Channels, Ban Books, Ban Pillion Riding, Close Networks, Kill Packages…

A land or community where censorship and suppression is preferred more than the awareness and reason, pronounces as much about the character of its leaders as it does about its people.

Ssshhh…! Don’t you dare raise a voice, our leaders believe in oppression more than the rights of citizen; in suppression more than reason and setting the right direction. Count yourself among the fortunate ones, that they haven’t advanced enough to hear your chatter and probe into your social networks, otherwise you’d be eager to just express let alone act. – Uh-oh…!

Sometimes I wonder if it’s the very act of our always settling down for little which makes us to lose a big picture right away. Being quickly thankful, calm and satisfied for when something is thrown our way or something is not taken away – gradually turning us into an indifferent being for the others; if it’s the same thing that makes us less curious, less eager, and less passionate to fight for our rights, to stand for others and to strive for what we deserve.

A sole person may be a victim, but when it comes to people – a collective, it’s more than a usual that they themselves are participating as a culprit in their own victimization. Any time when you ignore raising a voice, when you suppress your emotions, when you’re “OK” with the way things are even when in actual you’re not; Any time when you pretend to go with a flow, when you conform to the masses while your logic and reason says otherwise; Any time you don’t dare to take a stand against the dictators, don’t ask for transparency of information you deserve – you lose an accountability on your part to make sure that the people who’re administrating or representing you are doing the right job. You put yourself in comfortably numb position, where you become a poster – an invitation for exploitation.

If being pessimist is to be passive, why being an optimist isn’t to be an ‘active’? Why just settle for a half-glass and count yourself a king of the world, why not accept the truth and strive to do better? Why are we so comfortable in being treated like a vegetable? Why choose a shortcut – an under the table deal? Why suck a lollypop that won’t last long instead of choosing to learn, apply and have a right to make your own candy-land?

For the leaders: When you choose censorship over nurture-ship, banning and shutting over devising programs that inspire and motivate people, set their direction, make them better in logic and reason, yet all in engaging way – you exhibit rest of the world that your people aren’t capable of that… that they haven’t yet reached a bar of maturity required… that they would rather be suppressed than being taught or reasoned with. Well, then good luck for trying to stop other worlds (societies, communities, groups, nations) taking an undue advantage of you, or you stopping those who’re already doing it… because evidently you literally spelled out to them what you’re made of.

By the way, good luck censoring your local screw-ups on the global radar… you can’t do that, can you… ? Hmm!

Sea Inside

<Morning, Day, Evening, Night…
I dream of being a Knight!
One who marches on the shore,
like one who did never before!>

Roar like a lion, walk like a leopard
March on steep like a lonely shepherd
Feel for the people, warmth of stories…
Make the achievements with lasting glories…
Dance of the wind, dance of the flight
Absorbing my day, fulfilling my night!

<I dream of being a Knight!
One who marches on the shore,
like one who did never before!>

What will I be leaving for children of tomorrow?
Better be love and passion, rather than a sorrow…
Story of a Nero, a hero in inspiration…
Me being theirs a sense of fascination!
Making my travels broad their sight…
Setting their expeditions crystal bright!

<I dream of being a Knight!
One who marches on the shore…
like one who did never before!>

Not putting it up for any glamour
Doing it for fun or some flavor
Learning a dozen, making an error
A sense of pleasure, doing a favor
Music and rhythm, shades of light
Portal of smile, echoes of delight

<I dream of being a Knight!
One who marches on the shore…
like one who did never before!>

Someone thinking of me in passing night…
Immortal me, when their world shines bright!

<Morning, Day, Evening, Night..
I dream of being an Immortal Knight!
One who marched on the shore…
like one who did never before!>

– Dedicated to a “Story”, a short film and my favorite Spanish film: “Mar Adentro” (The Sea Inside).
Image Credits: koobassoff.deviantart.com