Tasenda

If only I could find my voice Bereft of echoes and banshee screams I would become another Hallaj And shout out your name From the roof tops Of the ravaged Baghdad of my Heart I would lay no claims To truth or divinity or even To you. For no one can claim You, it was made clear from the Day Iblis himself rebelled Against Allah and his creation No one could ever claim you, It was made clear No poets, no philosphers, No kinghts, no seers, no mendicants Of cheap arts. They all sought to, but failed. For who has tried kissing the fire, And lived to tell the tale. But rueful though the fate Has been to the lovers of yore I will try again, even though I know My fate Thirst would show on my lips Like ages old parchment recording Banal grocery lists of roman Camps and heat would ravage my face Like masks of wooden Norse gods I will try again, even though I know All I will shout in the end Will be ‘Tobaiey Takseer

This still born darkness Tearing through the night Has ruled over us for so long I have forgot, what it was To feel the sun in my eye - It has been this way, ever Since I lost my way, somewhere Between Nietzsche and Camus, When darkness came riding a Horse, White as light and heart just as black - The legion in me, held its peace Thinking here at last, peace is at hand But wrong we were, like every time Evil was too arrogant and we were too vile It chose not to hide in the dark But in the light - Landscapes of misery as far as Eye can see, illuminated by the moon Of despair , the half-dead along the path Mark the way to the house of Storm. -- The Walnut doors hide the Tempest within, screams of joy (or are they sighs of sorrow), ring the air, taking apart my hope on an assembly line till nothing is left, except a placard, which reads ‘Always, still Dark’

Eyebrows perpetually arched with curiosity, Coupled with those haughty cheek bones              Languid fingers, almost Jhelum-like, stroke               Stray hairs swaying across moonlit face My unstill heart, privy to your unknown secrets, Yearns to be disappears into its soft crevices                 I keep stealing moments from an unforgiving world,               As Qasidas are braided into aayats in rosaries of longing Promises of meeting after the end of time hang in air, Even as my life is held in the palm of a pale hand                 Doomsday , is fraught with too many risks of eternity         ...