zeeshanr Poetry (45)

Down the memory lanes, on which
you've strolled since ages past
They will end if you walk farther a step or two
Where exits the turn towards the wilderness of forgetfulness
beyond which, there isn't any Me, nor any You
My eyes hold their breath, for any moment you
may turn back, move ahead, or at least turn to look back
Although my sight knows that the wish is just a farce
For if ever it were to run across your eyes again
right there will spring forth another pathway
Like always, where ever we run into, there will begin
another journey of your lock's shadow, your embrace's tremor
The other wish is also in error, for my heart knows
There is no turn here, no wilderness, no mountain-range
beyond whose horizon, my perpetual sun-of-your-Love can set
May you continue walking these pathways, its better this way
If you don't even turn to look back, it is okay

Craving your love, he gambled away
both this world and the next.
Look – he is leaving now -
having spent the night in grief.
And the taverns are deserted,
and the wine glasses are upset;
hurt by your departure
even the Spring has turned away.
Forgetting you was a reprieve,
but it did not last.
Now we have seen how far
even God can be trusted.
The world seduced us,
made us exiles from your memory;
day by day, the business of living
proved more deceptive than your love.
And then, today, she smiled,
forgetting herself,
and the heart, so long unused,
began to beat with a new urgency.

Your sorrow in search of someone
willing to spill his blood
but they who once lined the roads
ready to give up this life
at a moment’s notice
for you
have left
no longer to be found
Beloved
the night waited with me for you
at dawn it admitted defeat and left
My consolers also departed
hurt to find my eyes
without tears
let down that I held back my grief
Nothing’s left now
no possibility of the night of love
and no way to show even a glimpse of pain
there’s no room for complaints
no margins allowed for suggestions
Tyrant
it’s your era
the restless heart’s lost its every right
It was me
it was my shirt
that was printed
with blood on the streets
darkened there with inks of accusation
I declared these stains a new fashion
and went to mingle with the guests
at my lover’s home
Nowhere anymore
that abandon of passion
no one wear’s fidelity’s raw fabrics
Hangman
what will you do with that rope?
who’s asked you to build the scaffold?
those once proud to be accused of love
they all have vanished.

How will it be, the day death comes?
Perhaps like the gift at the beginning of night,
the first kiss on the lips given unasked,
the kiss that opens the way to brilliant worlds
while, in the distance, an April of nameless flowers
agitates the moon's heart.
Perhaps in this way: when the morning,
green with unopened buds, begins to shimmer
in the bedroom of the beloved,
and the tinkle of stars as they rush to depart
can be heard on the silent windows.
What will it be like, the day death comes?
Perhaps like a vein screaming
with the premonition of pain
under the edge of a knife, while a shadow,
the assassin holding the knife,
spreads out with a wingspan
from one end of the world to the other.
No matter when death comes, or how,
even though in the guise of the disdainful beloved
who is always cold,
there will be the same words of farewell to the heart:
"thank God it is finished, the night of the broken-hearted.
Praise be to the meeting of lips,
the honeyed lips I have known."

This path of memory,
On which you have walked for so long,
Will end, if your were to proceed a few steps more,
Where it diverts to oblivion’s desolation
And from there onwards neither you nor I exist.
My eyes, still on you, wait that any instant,
You may return, pass on, or just look back.
Yet, I am aware,
That it is merely an illusion:
When I believe that if my eyes
ever embrace you somewhere,
A new path shall erupt there;
And a similar encounter shall resume;
Under the fall of your locks,
The journey of my arms.
Then, the other situation is just a false,
Because my heart knows:
There is no diversion, desolation or hiding,
Which may conceal my beloved from me.
So, while this path erupts under your feet,
Let it be so;
And if you never even look back,
It doesn’t matter.

The blue waters – Sky – stand still.
On the horizon has anchored,
Moon’s pale coloured barque.
At the shore have landed,
All the sailors – every star.
The breath of leaves is choked,
The wind has fallen into a lull,
The gong demanding silence reverberates.
Then, stillness absorbed all the voices.
From the breast of dawn’s nymph,
Fell the veil of darkness.
Instead,
Dark shadows of despair and loneliness
Have covered her whole being.
Yet, she is not aware of it.
No one is any longer aware, that at dusk,
When he left the town,
In which direction he proceeded;
There was no path, nor any goal.
No traveller, now,
Feels up to the journey.
This is a broken link of duration,
From the chain called as Day & Night –
This is the moment to lament Time’s death.
On such occasion, quite subconsciously,
After removing the cloak of myself,
I too, sometimes, look at –
Those spots of rebuke,
And these blooms of affection.
Lines etched by running tears,
Stains left by the bleeding heart.
This rip scratched by the enemy’s claw,
This image impressed by a friend’s hand.
These jewels bestowed by tender lips,
These slashes gored by some evil tongue.
Still, this cloak,
My covering for day and night,
This torn mantle,
Is what I despise; yet, love.
At times frenzy demands:
“Rip it off, throw it away.”
And sometimes love whispers:
“Cherish it; hold it close to your heart.”

What other road could I’ve taken?
Thorns were strewn on each!
Relationships over,
friends of centuries
gone one by one,
alone,
whichever road and
whatever direction I took
my feet were bloodied.
Those who see me
wonder what am I trying to imply
by colouring my feet?
They used to say
why am I complaining
needlessly
about the loss of friendship;
Go, wash my feet.
Where these road end
hundreds more will open up,
keep your spirit up
your heart will blunt
hundreds of swords!

When will this pain stop, my dear heart,
when will this night end ?
I had heard she was to come,
the day will break !
When will this life have life
when will this tear become a pearl
when these misty eyes will be happy
when will the spring come
when will the wine flow
When will we be free to talk
When will we begin to see ?
No preacher, hermit, advisor or despot,
how will we survive in this place ?
How long shall I wait, my friend,
when is the Doomsday ?
You must have some idea...

In the name of this day
And
In the name of this day’s sorrow:
Sorrow that stands, disdaining the blossoming garden of Life,
Like a forest of dying leaves
A forest of dying leaves that is my country
An assembly of pain that is my country
In the name of the sad lives of clerks,
In the name of the worm-eaten hearts and the worm-eaten tongues
In the name of the postmen
In the name of the coachmen
In the name of the railway workers
In the name of the workers in the factories
In the name of him who is Emperor of the Universe, Lord of All Things,
The farmer,
Representative of God on Earth,
Whose livestock has been stolen by tyrants,
Whose daughter has been abducted by bandits
Who has lost, from his hand’s breadth of land,
One finger to the record keeper
And another to the government as tax,
And whose very feet have been trampled to shreds
Under the footsteps of the powerful.
In the name of those sad mothers
Whose children cry out in the night
And will not be silenced by the defeated arms of sleep,
Who will not say what saddens them
Or be consoled by tears or entreaties.
In the name of those beauties
The flowers of whose eyes
Blossomed from every curtain and balcony
And withered away in waiting.
In the name of those wives
Whose unloved bodies
Have grown tired of the treachery of beds
In the name of the widows
In the name of neighbourhoods
Whose scattered garbage the moon
Blesses every night,
And from whose shadows cries out
The fragrance of veils
The tinkling of bangles
The scent of loosened hair
The smell of passionate bodies burning in their own sweat.
In the name of students
Who went to the masters of drums and banners
Prostrating themselves on doorsteps
With their books and pens
Praying, with open arms, to be heard,
But never returned.
Those innocents, who, in their naiveté
Took their tiny lamps,
Their candle flames of hope, to where
The shadows of endless nights were being given out.
In the name of those prisoners
In whose breasts the shining gem of the future
Burns, polished by the noise of the jailer’s night,
To a star like radiance.
In the name of those harbingers of the days to come
Who, like the flower with its scent,
Have become enamoured of their own message.

Before you came,
things were as they should be:
the sky was the dead-end of sight,
the road was just a road, wine merely wine.
Now everything is like my heart,
a colour at the edge of blood:
the grey of your absence, the colour of poison, or thorns,
the gold when we meet, the season ablaze,
the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames,
and the black when you cover the earth
with the coal of dead fires.
And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt wet with tears,
the road a vein about to break,
and the glass of wine a mirror in which
the sky, the road, the world keep changing.
Don’t leave now that you’re here—
Stay. So the world may become like itself again:
so the sky may be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

Only a few days, dear one, a few days more.
Under oppression’s shadows condemned to breathe,
Still for a time we must bear them, and tears, and endure
What our forefathers, not our own faults, bequeath:
Fettered limbs, each impulse held on a chain,
Minds in bondage, our words all watched and set down
Courage still nerves us, or how should we still exist,
Now with existence only a beggar’s gown,
Tattered, and patched every hour with new rags of pain?
Yes, but to tyranny not many hours are left now;
Patience a little, few hours of lamenting remain.
In this parched air of an age that desert sands choke
We must stay now—not forever and ever stay!
Under this load beyond words of a foreign yoke
We must submit for a while—not for ever submit!
Dust of affliction that clings to your beauty today,
Crosses unnumbered that mar our few mornings of youth,
Torment of silver nights, a pain with no cure,
Heartache unanswered, the body’s long cry of despair—
eOnly a few days, dear one, a few days more.

Awesome Story Must Read. . . .

Husband comes home drunk and breaks some crockery,
vomits and falls down on the floor...
Wife pulls him up and cleans everything.

Next day wen he gets up he expects her to be really angry wid him....
He prays that they should not have a
fight..

He finds a note near the table...

"Honey..your favorite breakfast is ready on the table,
i had to leave early to buy grocery...
i'll come running back to you, my love.
I love you. "

He gets surprised and asks his son..,

'what happened last night..?

Son told...

"when mom pulled you to bed and tried removing your boots and shirt..you were dead drunk and you said......

"Hey Lady! Leave Me Alone...I am Married !!!..."

That's True Love...