#2 Subjective Musings

 

I shall rather use the photographs to speak for the background of all the musings.

 

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Not just words, it seems the universe provoke the senses of my soul with every single glimpse of rhythm, image or sound. Poetry, they call it.

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My Dear Leo

The time has come where the ink shall reach the land,

Where you sit in peace, where you preach power.

How beautiful, the crown of wind, how majestic;

And you residing as the angle to hold the man.

 

Storms, they tend to have their way,

And the sand does not go with the fur of elegance,

My dear, how you make the cyclones to woe the sand?

How you assemble the serenity in the sorrow,

Roar in the rare dark caves of your mind.

 

All to escape through the light colors that delight,

Fourteen lines cannot do justice to the adore,

 

The Queen that addresses the masses of universe,

So different than the rest, such charm of life,

Either the ocean or the veil, the choice shall rest your day.

Sketch by Nistha Agrawal

Dear Gemini

We are gently written in the sky,

Like the wind, escaping the empty minds,

On the look of paradise, from the ocean,

To the shore, from the Sun,

To the Moon.

 

This curiosity links the woman to a thought,

To change the world, but only to herself,

She sings the beautiful discovery of the sins,

To dance along, and be friends with the song.

 

For she is the wind of humanity,

She can think and adore,

Rest each life and transcend the norms.

From around the world, she has been,

And she brings a lullaby that helps the world to think.

 

P.S-  The sketch is the contribution from another talented Gemini, Nistha Agrawal.

Dear Aries

Alive like the blood, Compelling as the rose.

It is all a simple rhythm to move along,

Maybe dance a little and colour the song,

It is the human nature to be adamant with prejudice,

Not for us, our senses can go beyond to empathise.

 

Peace is our stance while we listen,

And we expect the same from our whistle,

We may be horrid with the horns,

But often, humour can help you heal the wounds.

 

We are short-lived in anger and concern,

But the aesthetics shall remain and the future shall learn,

How trivial images can shape revolution for them all.

We hold the throne of lands on our head,

The passion that rules, hidden under the crest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Piscean

I realize they never settle,

I realize they never look up to the sky,

To find the spirit resting the strings to our nerves,

Rather, they drown and try to seek life in our troubles.

 

But as the inhabitants of the sea,

You and I shall hold the tranquil harp of needs,

For only when the ocean is calm,

They will feel the strings from the moon,

Pulling the existence to paradise from the clay.

 

Arid to their cause, we were blinded,

But always, and often their lucid dreams would tell,

That the souls rest on the verge of the waterfall,

Just like another one from the seas,

Seeking the symphony beyond the terror of deeds.

 

 

 

9. Asleep Yet Awake

“Are you alright, Atlas? Are you still asleep? It is 5 o clock.” It was Alex, the voice that drove me out of that scary place.

“The dreams are terrible yet, so meaningful.” I tried smiling at her, she looked terrified. Alex would never understand the dreams, she is the best in understanding the human mind, but the sense of mysticism always irritated her.

“Atlas, read less. You are driving yourself into these dreams, and I am afraid you are doing something to your head. I will make you soup, and if you sleep for more than 10 hours, I am calling Dr Louis.” I could not reply to her concerns, I wish I could share the most absurd but beautiful dreams with my wife, but what I have learned over the years of our marriage is her rational set up.

The one thing about her that makes us different from each other is my tendency to drift with thoughts and hers to restrict me, she balances my take on literature. Dr Louis is another rational human who would go to the extent of insulting me on my writings, his feedbacks always helped me in putting together pieces for the radical minds, but his presence used to be imitating. Dr Louis would be the last person I would share my dreams with, I had o visit to the college, I knew Irfan would understand these visions.

Soon, Alex was there with the best soup in the world, in our place for the daily therapy.

“Louis can be helpful, he is a psychiatrist, he might be knowing some mental exercises to calm the rush of thoughts, your fever is gone as well.” she could deduce I was alright just by the touch.

“How was your day? Are you happy with the work?” I had no choice but to change the topic.

“The work was not the problem, you never checked your phone, I was worried.” I picked up my phone, 7 missed calls, all from Alex. And an email, the same adress, which Irfan used before. I opened the mail on the phone and could see a verse and the word rumi at the end. Brought a smile on my face.

The verse continued, sir. It hit me in the camp, I use my friend’s device to email, donnot reply on this mail id. 

 

You, who have fallen asleep in the boat of the body,

You have seen the water.

Now, look upon the water of water.

There is a water which empowers the water;

There is a spirit which moves the spirit

Rumi

The Bodhi Tree

A daughter burned within the womb,

Born beautiful, yet barely alive,

Sits alone, on a tree that stood through the times,

When the fire had taken over my love for the lies.

I, named Amrapali, almost withered like the leaves,

Had to find an aura, an ocean that could heal through its site.

How beautiful, the root to the lotus would sit in tranquillity,

Guiding the likes of me towards the shore,

Through the clear waves from the universe,

Dementing the moulded clay of Karma.

The ocean, without the name,

Would ask us to close our eyes to feel the waves,

Powerful, healing to the core,

Where no name could suffice, but simply adore.

The names still ask if all I do is dream,

They call for Ajatshatru, They sing his deeds,

But how trivial the fire in the names and the place,

As if the hate co existed in the name of love,

Rather a blame from the faith?

Come dear names under the Peepal,

Where the ocean sits to adore the rain.