Tasenda

One night, in between cups of misery  I held my drunken self in my arms  Reveling in the beautiful misery of it all  One night, in between madnesses I wrote long letters addressed to myself  Holding addresses hostage to my postcards  One night, in between judgements  I passed guilty sentences on myself Branding debaucheries onto my skin  One night, in between infidelities  I found Ifrit sleeping in my bed  Hiding futures stolen from stars  One night, in between dissolving dreams  I felt the night passing through my wings Weaving musky death between my fingers 

In the desolation of madness, that was his love, Majnuṅ looked for her in the desert rain  In the darkness of the night, that was his love  Majnuṅ looked for her portents in the smoke that drifted away  In the grains of sand, that was his love  Majnuṅ traced her face tracking maps of fate  In the biting cold of dry winter, that was his love  Majnuṅ fragmented stoicism, kindling mottled fires of seclusion  In the mire of ruins of ghosts, that was his love  Maṅjuṅ wove the tattered remains of faith into a  Aqad*  In the Remanants of sighs, that was his love  Maṅjuṅ would whisper only word to the ifrits** Laila *Aqad: Arabic for necklace: In this case, a love knot **Ifrits: The most powerful and dangerous Jinns that are said to inhabit deserts and ruins 

She, Who would balance the world On her fingertips, Would hide in the Darkness That lies between the flickering of flames Fiddling with the curtains, Breathing secrets in my ears Her secret kisses Would hang in the air, Frozen between sighs, Holding my breaths hostage In the palm of her tiny hands Creating little tea-rooms From her imagination for us Over cups of riotous tea, In the deserted shelters of memory We would hold hands, While lording over cake crumbs Drowning in the quicksands of eyes, Playing her personal Favourites amidst the never ending Radio commentary

One Kashmir morning, the snow Buried all the  Dervishes , devouring the Mad mendicants in white sheets, melting them down into absolute nothings leaving behind a flurry of green and white The  mehfils  of God and Opium that stood At the end of the cobbled-stoned lanes of my Phantom Childhood, dissipated - like crowds after a summer firing, leaving behind puddles of coagulated rubies in their abandoned  chappals Betrayed by the mendicants- who claimed that They wrote letters to God - lovers who had carved desperate prayers on desolate walls Lay abandoned holding onto chains That hung on the intricate Arabic of the  Astans   Now, they collect the dead and Bury them in gardens of their hearts Nourishing them with stories of long-forgotten loves, Imploring them to take seed, Promising them a Revolution