the colour harmony!!

  We saw sparrows, flying over may flowers He, from his window sill and I, from my corridors of twilight shades. We stood there, floors apart, as distant time Gazing out at the leaves before the fall   Time conspires against people hiding them, inside frames of yesteryears. They move around in black and white like a movie from the silent era, unless snow melts on the first dawn, when reindeers come out to shade them gold.   You meet for a first time, some day after so many days together In a city, you shared. On those lanes you walked together, Unaware, in the crowd. You hear the music of the alphabets in the words, you left for the other to pick up. Smiles and silences glide as if in love, like never before.   We take the road to the South, One summer day And meet the sea like a flag flying out, from the edge of the world. We become the blue of the current in our veins ...

Boredom is a sign of depression. The type that affects the stealthy rich What else to do when you have had your lunch taken a day off at the beach debated on how climate change is directly proportional to the class wars and refugee hike Smoked while counting stars, Joined a toast at your friends garage and sang of love and longing. Boredom affects your religion When you have nothing to pray. As your thoughts take a flight on sleepless nights over abstract canvas of life and letters. The type, which a toiling body miss the moment it falls asleep exhausted, under some way side makeshift Or on mud, on a full moon day.

Once the love is spent, and the heartbeats turned to screeching summer Treat him dead.   There is no point in opening your bosom to the skies and weighing down in some anticipated longings.   Its not love, my dear But your trampled ego that makes you helpless, to get an edge over those ill fed hours you wasted, over some worthless parasite.   Forget what went by, like footmarks after a rain History is, after all, a selective remembering.

Once in a while, you meet someone who gradually walks, on the thresholds of your imagination.   Flashing through your mind, on those remote hours as you pause from work, or stare out through your window as the day sets into the glimmering sky.   They are like wine and the colour brown, unavoidable blend of dusk and passion you nurture, on your veins.   Make them your pigeons Let them roost and leave than die on your balcony Over fed and senile.  

On days I don’t write I think of ways to die.   I am suddenly reminded of War bodies under the infinite sky Starved bodies, dead. Bodies from the borders floating head down on our seas. Female bodies, on which they calculate the circumference of flesh and blood, and mark points of highs and lows. Bodies burnt alive or stripped For skin tone and holy truths.   The living moment seems heavy It threatens me with an endless mirage of distant time. It seems tiring to fill in the hours amidst the uncertainty logic. To wear all those over grown costumes of everyday To eat, sleep and work on a daily basis. To smile, love and talk to fellow humans.   Time stands still, like a breath I forgot to inhale.   I stare out from my kitchen window, and withdraw to that corner on my bed, where I cuddle every night, into some unknown womb   It’s not about being lazy, But a call of...

Its not the curse, or the anger Or the days when you pull off your hair And scream, that invites his bad omen. But the lone hours you spent near the river with a sea inside. The silence you fall into, like the disheveled stare of insanity and the many moons you lose to other worlds that mark his roads to Byzantium.   I feel the goddess in red, on my nerves On those days of calm after a storm When I sit down and count his sins like an eagle with its eye on the chicks below.   The seeds of sorrow sprout a poison tree Spreading shades of blue, on his body Like the nerves of a city at night. The male god no more holds the blue, Nor does he survive the storm before the first rain.   She, my goddess of strangled desire, awaits his part in the cosmic drama. As the story of the betrayed king falls out of the printed page as letters without a language, the knots of the curtain unfold.   Th...

Life unfolds in spasmodic dramaturgy Performing a rite of passage On those days, between two loves. One dead, like a dry river bed and the other, an anticipated dawn.   The days, or years in between Open its bosom like a tropical desert. The shadows one leaves behind become Birds of the Western Sahara. And you too slide, from birth and beginnings, to stories of early spring and aborted winter.   Days spread out like an atlas and you become the land and the sea, pockets of displeasures and spent out waste lands, fading like vanishing islands.   The interlude is a life span by itself Where you begin as an unhatched soul. Design the routes of an insect cycle and wait for the light, to flutter out your butterfly wings.