The Long Winter

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I found
Leaves shivering in cold,
and showing pattern,
I once traced on your skin…

I found
sky vomiting gold,
searching for tree,
under which we had our first kiss…

I found wind blowing
just to float me away
from today to yesterday…
when your fragrance used to linger on me…

They all reminded me,
how winter once used to be…
of time when nothing cold was painful,
since warmth of your breaths surrounded me…

Even moon used to bow
in an alley we used to meet in…
where I touched your hands first..
stars kissed your feet.

But this is not the winter
in which we weaved our dreams…

We’ve slipped far far away
from the mirror – our axis…
we no longer know what
kept our heart racing…

I keep looking for you,
in my present,
knowing I buried you,
out in the world for centuries
shutting myself in a coffin
holding sands of a last spring.

I found
sand mixing with the storm,
unraveling my tombstone,
on which you said once,
“You’ll never forgive me!”

Now, I find stars too,
complaining to me…
for I don’t share with them anymore,
what I wished for our destiny.

couple_snow_rain_love[1]

– Dedicated to lovers unaware of long stretches of glacial boundaries that often grow in between, post beautiful snowfall they dance in…

Image Credits:
1. Glacier_person_cold_alaska (wallpaperscraft.com)
2. Couple_snow_rain_love (hdwallpapers.im)

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The Immersion

http://thecreatorsproject.vice.com/blog/preview-a-giant-underwater-sculpture

In times, after a day tiring,
and in nights without rest…
I seek to sit beside you in silence,
to receive your warmth,
like you’re a fire lit beside camp,
and I am a vagabond, tired
of roaming in wild darkness.

I am inclined to fall into your lap,
to have some moments of rest,
like you’re a ground sacred,
and I am a leaf, that has
just parted from wreath.

I burn to slip into your hands,
to know what is it to be contained,
like you’re a goblet of rejuvenation,
and I, mere an ash – scattered,
from the glowing mountains.

I ache to immerse in your embrace,
to find how pain vanishes with grace,
like you’re a moon casting – a quilt of spells,
and I am a moth howling,
in lust of mystic flame.

I yearn to flow my pulse to your heart-beats,
to feel what’s rising and what’s drowning,
like you’re a river of passion scintillating,
and I, mere a stone split
from rocks eroded.

I wish to submerge inside your breaths,
to forget any other world that exists,
like you’re a portal to universe another,
and I, a war-ship, that long sought
exile from wars and battles.

I desire to sink my world in you,
in craving to earn, color of your hue.
Like you’re the star, arose
to inspire luminescence…
and I am among those
trifling forever in shadows…

No matter when you look,
you’ll find me longing for this essence.
Since,
I am too tired of whole world around
lingering their eyes on me
seeking some complacence.
While, all I strive is to settle
in your arms, as a meaningless.

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– Dedicated to the only beloved who can immerse a lover totally…

Image Credits:

  1. “Ocean Atlas – Created by Jason deCaires Taylor” – Source: thecreatorsproject.vice.com
  2. “Christ of the Abyss – Created by Guido Galletti” – Source: viralnova.com

The World for the lovers, is no less than the heavens (Duniya kisi ke pyar mein jannat se kam nahi)

Another gem in the ghazal world, rendered by non other than the master of the masters in Ghazal singing: Mehdi Hassan saheb.

Translation:

Nightingale said it to flower,
and flower said it to spring,
what stars heard as a whisper
from night’s silver fling:

“The World for the lovers,
is no less than the heavens…
A beloved residing in heart
is no less than the angels…”

You’re monarch of beauty,
beauty of universe you’re.
You’re soul of integrity,
integral of true love you’re.
All splendor of your beauty,
is no less than galaxies.

Even by chance when you smile,
pearls fall like it’s raining.
Even at sight of your glance,
buds bloom like it’s spring.
Fragrance sunk in your tresses,
is no less than the florets.

– Dedicated of course to the beloved no less than the angels…

Bulbul ne gul se, gul ne baharon se keh dia
Ek chaudween k chaand ne sitaron se keh dia

Duniya kisi ke pyar mein jannat se kam nahi
ik dilruba hai dil mein jo huron se kam nahi

tum badshah-e-husn ho husn-e-jahan ho
jan-e-vafa ho aur muhabbat ke shan ho
jalve tumhare husn ke taron se kam nahi

bhule se muskurao to moti baras pade
palke utha ke dekho to kaliyan bhi hans pade
khushbu tumhari zulf ke phoolon se kam nahi

– Originally written by: Wahaj Muhammad Khan (popularly known as Dukhi Premnagri)

Urdu version:



بلبل نے گل سے، گل نے بہاروں سے کہه دیا
ایک چودهویں کے چاند نے تاروں سے کہه دیا

دنیا کسی کے پیار میں، جنت سے کم نہیں
اک دلربا ہے دل میں، جو حوروں سے کم نہیں

تم بادشاه حسن ہو، حسن جہان ہو
جان وفا ہو اور محبت کے شان ہو
جلوے تمہارے حسن کے تاروں سے کم نہیں

بهولے سے مسکراؤ تو موتی برس پڑے
پلکهیں اٹها کے دیکهـو تو کلیاں بهی ہنس پڑے
خوشبو تمہاری زلف کی پهولوں سے کم نہیں

– دُکھی پریم نگری –

Trivia: “Lal Muhammad Iqbal was the composer of this song for the Pakistani film “Jaag Utha Insaan (1966)”. Shaikh Hassan, the director of the movie proposed Dukhi Saheb to write a song comparable with Shakeel Badayuni’s famous song :CHAUDHVEEN KA CHAND HO YA AFTAB HO…JO BHEE HO KHUDA KI KASAM LA’JAWAB HO… Dukhi Saheb reminisced “It was a very difficult challenge to me. Somehow, I sat down in a corner, scribbling aimlessly in a paper. Suddenly, the second Misra (Ek Dilruba Hai Dil Main Jo Hooron Sey Kum Nahin ) emerged from sub-conscious mind, I jotted it down. Meanwhile, Shaikh Hassan entered the room, he was glad to hear this Misra, he kept humming it. Within half an hour the first Misra flashed through my mind.” He completed the remaining song within 10 mins. Though it didn’t win, but this song was put up for Nigaar Award in Best Song category.”

Following version is covered very deliciously by a British singer, Tanya Wells:

The Maiden Lips

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Pink Castle

Level by level
it’s arranged like a palace.
Like some outer skirts,
try to sheath inner stakes,
from touch of those who’re
not worthy of its fragrance…

Yet news of its beauty travels
around in moments,
captivating minds of cunning thieves
and those who wear their heart
on the rugged sleeves.

With only one goal
they pursue,
to posses an aura,
to surround self with its magic.
To know what is it like,
the love’s first kiss.

And in the center of it,
Behind all walls, beyond all borders,
rests a jewel, a crown awaits,
for a lover to pollinate,
the maiden lips.

– Dedicated to the spring.

Image credits: “Pink Castle” by Aminah Tasleem

Beyond the Shell

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I wish, like the cycles of day and night,
our eyes too knew, when to stay open
and when to remain close for the rest.

How easy it would become
should they too follow the order,
for both the counts of emerging dawns
and the times of darkness.

We would know what to see,
and for what to endorse blindness,
what to feel and for what to
sport the numbness…
No matter how inclined we find
ourselves towards any essence.

But then I also realize,
that day and night follow
a succinct pattern, like
everything else in the nature,
that hosts a chaos with-in.

They enthrall us with their
order, their rules, their norms,
a regular dose of routine.
So we’re there to look for them,
to recognize how well they
carry inside a life,
just like one outside admiring them.

For what would be a Star,
if it turned up each day with
a same flare,
and how would we wait
for a sight of a moon’s charm
would it appear daily as usual,
with a same face?

Not many of us recognize
little change, they bring up along
in each passing second.
Perhaps, we’re too occupied
with their enormousness.

Umbrellas that we’re born under,
change so slow,
we hardly notice its color are
fading or escaping the edge.
Perhaps, we fail to gather,
order is only what our eyes have made
themselves accustomed to, already.

For each and everything in nature
has a boundary for distinction
but inside that
it hosts, pathways, junctions,
cross-ways, slopes and steeps
limitless.

And so do us – the humans,
greatly so,
who carry sense of recognizing
the order in madness
– if we will.
Who have heart beats,
following a rhythm, often
not of our own but of
someone’s influence
– should we wish.

Hence, I am glad, we have eyes,
for they split apart on the
pavements of the heart,
to entertain what matters
most while keeping the life
from falling apart.

And then they come
a full circle again,
knowing, rules are mere ruse.
For when they’re keen,
dreams are no different from goals,
carcasses become scaffold,
the garbage leads to the gold,
and wilderness becomes the road.

For eyes are here
to step into the dreams,
to pickup the pieces of reality
in a snow globe of perpetual myths.
To host the chaos and
figure an order with-in.

To float like a butterfly,
but not to perch mere on established green,
rather to put up a dance
on a rhythm unique.

For how will world ever see anything new,
if our eyes would flow
only with the current of streams,
or follow what’s agreed on by the
builders of past or breeders of fences
as an only perspective.

I am glad we have eyes,
that in the darkness, we can keep open.
Since not everything is visible under the Sun,
like not everything disappears
even when bewitching moon has
its spell casted.

The shadow of a tall man creeps eerily across the cracked playa of the Alvord Desert in Southeast Oregon as the moon looms above.

– Dedicated to the eyes that try to see invisible, even when it’s declared as non-existent by the rest.

Image Credits:
1. “Morning Prayer” – haikudeck.com
2. “Alone in the desert” – benchasephoto.com

The Barren

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I was unclothed,
raw and skinless.
The bones seem to hang
to each other,
like they’re tired of holding
their own weight.

Felt naked for so long,
it started to reflect.
Growing insensitive of screams
surrounding my presence.
I had no nerves to feel,
nor any pores to sweat.

I was akin to a carcass
of an animal,
left by the hunter,
after being done with the play
for which it was preyed.

Perhaps, that’s what
they referred as the cost
of abandoning those
who did swear on your love.
Time wandered through me
like a mice in maze.

Here I was standing,
amidst a home of birds
and the nest of people.
They’re calling me
by my name,
but I had no idea
of what it did sound like
any more.

Is there still a life here?
waiting to be kind
to someone who’s seeking
a warmth in a cold,
if not a shelter in summer’s.

Where most saw,
stack of wood piled up
before bonfire
gets commenced.
A star, still saw here
a scaffold for a structure
yet to emerge out of eclipse.

The fire it is,
in its heart,
that’s warming me,
so that the burned one
may live once again.
Folding time to a junction,
where spring too knew,
what they call now – the barren.

– Dedicated to the stars, both of earth and the heavens, that show up time and again, to rekindle the dry flame.

Image Credits:
“The Barren” – By Aminah Tasleem.

Poet 101

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They say,
poets don’t have a future…
Just a dream of it.

Eyes set on clouds of present,
messed hair and wrinkled clothes,
for moisture just dried off them,
post farewell of last rainfall.

Books drunken -ragged gown,
letters in pockets, scattered
now on the golden browns,
as frozen fragrance of dry flower
reeks from cold palms.

A keep situated
far from the madding crowd,
as green carpet lavished the floor;
creeks in the dry pastel colors,
this painting,
that hangs beside the door.

Hands tied together
like waves with unbreakable bond.
And hugs like sun kissing an ocean
right before it drowns.
Bidding adieu, salty lips whisper,
“see you, again”, to love just found.

Birds dancing on
the walls of a vacant house,
sporting flags of invitation
boasting subliminal colorful town.
Yet, alleys heading towards this palace,
has intersections with echoing sound,
from closets full of nostalgia,
and empty swings – with whom
the air plays around.

Feet sunk in a dense pit,
body looking like a sculpture
just discovered out of the pyramid.
As sweat married sand particles,
while eyes wandered in wilderness,
hunting for the oasis.

Part miles and decades
from the crimson fountain
holding water that mirrors the soul.
Yet, taste of a passionate kiss,
of an evening of dreams,
still circling the elixir in mouth.

Days getting shortened
painting the golden crowns,
and nights growing longer,
dressed in the silver gowns.
Some tunes contemporary
being played in welcoming halls,
but lips humming
lines of a nostalgic song…

Wheels turning clock-wise
on long empty roads,
while heads resting on back-seats,
tilting a time on slope…
A journey measured in stars crossed,
for those one left behind,
or ones that would come forth…

They say, poets, often don’t have a future…
Just a dream of it.
And perhaps, words a few
to paint on the weary walls…

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– Dedicated to the spirit of the poets.

Image Credits:
1 – Stock image/ wallpaper.
2 – Cover picture – Film: The Prophecy at Rome