An Ode To My Brothers : Seed Bag

The babies of time slumber in this seed bag,

Shallow hearts,drown our souls.

These winds have calmed in acceptance ,

acceptance of a drought at the sea bed.

Friend, here we are at the end of the road,

Mined Fields mark the road back home,

Its funny but this is the last lap of eternity,

Its time to sacrifice dreams and love.

Time to help a world collapsing under its load,

its time to go shoulder the roofs of our homes,

time to sing of happiness and glory.

Time to be givers of lives,time to be lost for someone else.

The red sky of truth marks this road,

Fellow, its time to give up on our own dream.

Even if their world of love is ribald ,

it still cures the wounds we hid under a saint like smile.

Give up the Prose and join me in this rhapsody,

lets give truth and hope another chance.

Lets save these lands for our sons,

the ones in this seed bag.

Why do the angels of peace carry rowels?

The storm keeps on building

the twigs shiver,dead birds awake

to sing their last songs again.

The fort of lies crumbles and you sit

nibbling on a grief of a thousand sins.

The thunder then strikes,

the shoulders feel a warming lightness.

Ecstasy is lost somewhere in the wreckage,

You'll find some comfort here.

Hope is the name of a heaven in hell.

Come join us, mercy sits next to me,

wondering why the obvious was not fulfilled,

Why the sons of god love sacrifice so much,

Why is sorrow the treasure they cherish profusely

Why is love pleached with hate?

The absence of craving and screaming,

leads to a void of reason and menacing understanding.

Why can't I be just a dreamer?

The only truth about life is death ,the rest is a world of dreams.

The dreams make our choices,the world, our decision.

Why is peace colored in a mourning white?

Love and life is closer to the unknown

than what birth is to death.

An untamed free will is not a pocession of evil ,

merely a passionate gift of love.

Being lost is a Spring in autumn.

Yet Why do angels of peace carry rowels?

Running back, back to be lost again,

i see angels guarding the road back home,

they smile and love, help me find my way home.

There somewhere i'm the grays is home,i run,run with all my might.

Then i stop to realize its lost somewhere in the bricks.

I ask myself why do angels of peace carry rowels?

Crazy Dream

She arises the dyeing bright beauties of the sun, in the cold solemn serenity of the moon. Longing the company of the stars the wind shies away. But she just smiles and carries on. Hooded in black she smells of a rose ashen in the furnace of time. As a silent foot rises to warm mother earth, there is a rising of sand following the tread. They pass the desert in search of something, leaving their dead behind and carrying their souls. The thirst dries away like the many garments of life. The glamour of foolishness was buried long ago; the tombstone on it is the world you all live in. They know there is no difference between shame and glory, they know the dwellers of Byblos and the many lovers of Tamouz, they know the threads that wrap an infant’s memory and the reasons behind such bloody stars of history, and they walk following a white dove in the darkest of nights. The spitefully dancing flames of lust were dozed by the blood of passion. They walk on, on and alone into the eternity of the unknown. The hood never lifted yet I know not how she smiled, I guess a part of me walks along.

THE LOST TRUTH- Forgiveness

From the warmth of the womb,

till the silence of the grave

there's an ad lib voice begging forgiveness

It seems like your euphonic

world has evanescent our souls,

leaving us too gauche too live

Under the Georgette we are too nude to face thyself

Trying to understand thy non nonpareil, stern powers

we have been bashed and pulverized by thy angels

Atop the mountains and hills

the fearful banshee cries

Down in the valleys our barbarity asks for mercy.

O thy ever merciful

consider not our bleeding eyes to be madder

for the obsequies of our loves had made us so obfuscate.

Listen to the cries of the starving young

see the regret in thy fallacy followers

have mercy on thy free prisoners.

Forgive us O Lord almighty

for the womb is now bleeding dry

and the genii are rising from their graves.

The Funeral

Its time to gather the rose petals again ,

was yet another clean tragedy

its time to bathe someone in jasmine again

time to celebrate yet another funeral.

its time to submerge the cadaver

in the lake of the glittering stars

Its time to place the withered rose atop the coffin,

and dig the earth of its ageless severity.

Its time to harvest this season

the season of a clamorous solitude

Let this be a day of extravagant merry making

cause its the end of yet another recalcitrant life.

Razed by the ravenous mysteries of life

and satiated by the phantoms of death, its the end.

let the cadaver be lowered,

Scraped off its soul, it still hears the thud.

Collect all sots , lets drink tonight,

splutter the grief to the mirrors on the wall.

Mewed by the world, he is free today.

Today, is the funeral of the hermit.

RANDOM PART 2

For once at least break all idols in memory of Muhammad, all and let none be left even in the desires of Rumi. Be a mu’mim at last, then stand towards Mecca and call for Him. With all the nafs gone shout out to the prophet and listen if he answers. The wait may be eternity but there won’t be an answer. “And we did not send you except as a mercy to (all) peoples”. We work in slavery to the one we can’t trust. He never came himself, because he is bigger than us. I know not but I have seen infant life on ageless trees. The beliefs of a kafir may have been taught to us by a kafir, we may never know who the real shataan was. It could have been Muhammad or the scent of the air we breathe. So leave all desires of the mercy of Thee, let the Sama begin and let the music flow into the depths of our soul...

Scriptless Demons - Random Part 1

It’s funny the way we live with the ability to make the future though sometimes go numb at the sight of it. It’s when the fragrance of good is carried by the air of evil, when the thoughts of loss go round and round in your head, then come straight to pass through your heart. When the ability to fight is a burden you can no longer carry on the bruised shoulders. Its then that you realise that it’s a world of hounds and angels, the angels eat our souls and the hounds, what remains.

The dreams we have are promises made to us by life. So, is it fair to vague a war against the world and what’s left of you when they are not kept? Some say the best war was the one which was never fought. When men are not fighting for gain, they fight for honour. We have not any honour nor any thing to gain, but still there is a good enough reason for us to keep on going, to keep on fighting till the last drop. This war is the war for passion, where passion is the idea of war, where heaven is in the tearing of flesh, the breaking of bones and the treachery of the screams. The people who fight such wars aren’t maniacs, they aren’t the stone heart dictators cause all they want to do is loose , loose every chain that ties them to the lies of life. So that they can dig out the heart of the world and set it on fire. The beauty of love, the joys of life and the sweetness of pain are just ravenous gods we feed. The only truth is the rawness of the animal inside of us.

I’ve spent many days seeing the spirit of life in terms of good or bad. Ignored it today. We can believe good with as much confidence as the evil and vice-a-versa.

Is everything caused by something, compulsion? Maybe, maybe not. But if force is caused by the product of mass and acceleration, is it possible that it may not be caused by mass and acceleration? If an apple falls, is it possible that it may never fall? Why can’t things be understood without comparing it with something else? Why can’t good be good without being compared to evil? There must be some kind of connection making opposites similar? So does that actually mean the good is bad n bad is good? Should the shataan be prayed to instead of Allah? It’s outrageous but think about it. We may just have spent ages fighting the wrong ills.

Two goods opposing each other is evil, buh two evils opposing each other is good. Two similar passions opposing each other is evil and its ecstasy.

Art

There sitting among the sots is a man whom the wise consider unworthy of thought, his love unworthy of her charm and the gods who sit high above , guarding their pitfalls of error , destruction and lust consider him unworthy of life. they knew his end is near and so did this man . For his art was born with birth of the breeze and shall die in the last flames of the sun. His art is what kept him alive despite the endless horrors of time.

His art was what helped him survive the pangs of starvation.

His art was what helped him see beyond the eyes.

His art was what helped him lift the dark robes of love and kiss the white chastened soul.

His art was his belief in the gods,. that very art which gave him the power to give up the luxuries of life , made him see through the eyes of the gods. And there he saw the most malaginent souls of all. The souls rusted by endless luxuries, lust and lies. Since that very day he gave up his love for the gods and fruitlessly tried to open the chained eyes of hope and belief.

Today, he sits among the sots and celebrates his farewell.

The Eternity Of Love

The heart of yours is god's subtle gift,

so let the wings of your dreams let you lift,

then sing to the winds the songs of your heart,

let it cure the many swaddled by wrath.

Walk down every mountain , every street,

the alleys, the woods, and never retreat.

But haste not through these deserts so many

for the walk is long yet oasis many.

Worry not for your sanity , when you've found your love,

for keeping watch is an eye high above,

waver not when parting is the will of time

drink from the jars of love , blood mixed in brine

Leave not hope and never the faith,

for love's stronger than lust or hate.

Ride the bronco through meadows unknown

but forget not , your heart you no longer own.

Drench your self in the memories till death

and sing her name in the lovely last breath

Then the angels will take you there where love fills sight

there in the foggy misty night, the lover's shall unite.

Hope

We all are but prisoners in the dusk of this dawn,

All we have are the stale misconceptions from hope

As we lay, awake in this bed of the many sleepers.

We sing, we scream and we go silent

Knowing not if to breathe, we carry on

We dance in this party with the vanity of funerals

There is only one thing we can do, yet know not if its true

Hope is the name of our child,

Bloody and numb we know not if it is alive

On the board, the last pawn to fall,

In the woods, the grapevine embracing the grainy dead

It might just end being the song of mundane will.

In the sight of the sun, it is a flash of night,

And in the night, the shadow of a moonlit sky

Rising above like the waves of fate, all we can do is drown

Again, we sing and we scream

Drunk in the truth of these mysteries we dance

Dance through the funeral processions up to the bed of our graves.

The Heretic

I was never born and never shall I die,

I am buried in the earth and mock the skies.

I am not a human nor am I a bird,

Yet I fly, fly into this coldness of humanity.

I was never sane and never insane,

I was never drowning, just swimming away.

I am no sinner nor a lusty saint,

Yet a follower of a god who lost his reign.

I’m no serene symphony nor a raw cacophony,

But a blue guitar with the voice of poverty.

I am no warrior nor a coward king

But the ink which pronounced the evil thing.

I’m no preacher and never a puissant,

But the words which never left the tongue

I am not Christ and never the messiah

Nor a pawn in the war of faith.

I am the poignant poinsettia

Who wishes to leave the scarlet leaves,

Live in the long dead deserts

And withstand the maelstroms of strange desires.

I am not the maggot who thrived

in the meat of the wise magi.

But the mahogany’s lost freedom

Which is now but a bench in thy church.

I’m the one who saw the malignity

Brought to thy holy script, was the declared a malevolent.

Parted from my people because I loved thee,

While my love for him was simple and maladroit .

Just because I learnt what thee had wanted,

And not what the ones who fill their coffers teach you .

I was never born and never shall I die

Let me be buried and mock the skies.

Tonight's back alley