Caged bird I will cut your feathers And let you free, forever. Old prisoner I will slay your throat And let you escape from here. Little kid Hand me your kite And play with rifles instead. Solitary girl Sing me songs of mourn For I will kill your mother now. White teddy Close your eyes tight As I rip off your cotton bod. Brave sailor Laugh and rejoice Until I draw a hole in your boat. Wounded warrior Count your last breaths As I finally shoot this arrow. Sweet baby Smile once more, and last As I snatch you away and throw.
Cut my feathers and I shall bleed
I won’t fly but the blood shall flow
And sow the seeds of a resilience new.
Slay my throat and I shall cry
I won’t say but I shall be heard
And a voice of courage shall rise.
Give me the rifle and I shall fire
I won’t aim but I shall shoot
And the bullet shall hit you instead.
Kill my mother and I shall weep
I won’t sing but tears shall flow
And rocks shall melt, and so shall you.
Rip me off and I shall wait
I won’t see but the cotton shall be free
And be woven again to form your shroud.
Draw a hole and the boat shall sink
I won’t cry but million would do
And tears of blood shall flood your dreams.
Shoot the arrow and I shall die
I won’t count but breath shall be gone
And another shall point to you.
Throw me away and I shall sleep
I won’t smile but doomsday would
And haunt till the end of your life.
Title credits: Introvert. 🙂
I will cut your feathers
And let you free, forever.
I will slay your throat
And let you escape from here.
Hand me your kite
And play with rifles instead.
Sing me songs of mourn
For I will kill your mother now.
Close your eyes tight
As I rip off your cotton bod.
Laugh and rejoice
Until I draw a hole in your boat.
Count your last breaths
As I finally shoot this arrow.
Smile once more, and last
As I snatch you away and throw.
like flames burning
Desire; like insatiable thirst, a traveler lost in a desert, clueless clues. Desire; like incomplete puzzle pieces, locked doors, rusting hinges, rotten fruits. Rotten fruits?
Desire; like uncomfortable ambiance, waves struggling to reach shore. Desire; like heated situations, discordant harmony, unsettling wonders. Desire! Like haunting memories, hanging questions, unachievable glances. Desire like tears on verge, riddles unanswered, complications unheard.
Are you real?
Because if you are
I will make you mine!
If you are not
I will paint you mine!
Desire: La shae’e mislak. Desire: Lam ya’ati Nazeeruk.
Desire: like a toy out of reach.
What is it for you?
– Maria I.
It’s cold here.. quite cold actually. The road is busy, very. No one is willing to stop, they’re all busy running. Passing by too quickly, without wasting a ‘precious’ moment, as if they’ll lose a race. Race, yes. They’re all trying to run and win. But not all can win, do they know not? There have to be just one. Just One!
One – Two – Three – GO! And off they start, to end. They run with the whistle and keep running, for a million reasons. Perhaps the best of them, those reasons, is to shut those voices within. Voices inside, outside, shouts. Good way! Temporary, but good. Good for them if they like it.
All eyes glued on her, they were all spellbound by her magnificent beauty as she entered in the main hall. And she deserved it, she was worth all praise. A delicate model dressed in red, designer jora on her big day, that elegant look those make-up men had given her from the parlor, and her looks! The bride stunned them all.
“Just perfect!”, she heard someone call. Someone, she knew. Someone, whose voice was easily recognizable among all chaos, all audience. She lifted her head and looked around, but failed to spot the carrier, the source of that wonderful voice. He was nowhere among the crowd, then where had he spoken from?
‘Oh, heart!’, she whispered as she realized where.
“It is glass, fragile. But it ain’t in any way ordinary! What it holds inside is very, very precious. I’m handing it over to you because I know that it belongs there. Just make sure you keep it safely. I also understand your way back down is tough, but you’ll make it there, won’t you? The road is dark, but if you act smart, you will do it.”
The hall shrieked as she screamed, most of them covered their faces with their hands. She fell on the ground, shouting for help, yet no one dared to touch her.
The bride’s face had burnt, and was burning still. His acid spray had caused cracks, burns, wounds. Cracks.
They began to laugh, all of them. They danced, drank, played, circled her. She cried silently as she felt herself being dragged into that dark, horrible abyss.
He kept running and running until he finally reached his ‘destination’. He had attained whatever he had wanted, faster than those who were still running. They hadn’t won the race, he had. Maybe because they were so busy running that they forgot what they were running after.
Just one wins. He had won ‘nothing’, and yet everything was now in his hands.
‘Marvelous! Just splendid!’, he praised his skills. ‘Master, you’ve carved the pot wonderfully, and those paint streaks make it look all the more charming! How do you do this? Carve pots out of mud, add such colors, make it look so real? So real, so magical, just wonderful!’
‘I am willing to pay you whatever you ask for, please tell me what you’d like?’
She stumbled as a stone hit her on her way on that dark, concrete road but she managed to keep walking. She determined not to let her bottle fall, but fate had decided otherwise. Many stones were pelted on her, in a continuous manner, until she finally fell and dropped the glass bottle of mercury.
The liquid turned into soft, small, solid balls and scattered everywhere on the black road. She looked at them, devastated. They ran everywhere, like beads from a broken necklace, and finally spread themselves all over the dark road. They glistened and shined, playing with the pebbles, as she saw them again with awe.
Finally, she stood up and wiped her forehead where it had begun to bleed. Another short sequence of beads dropped on the ground, and mixed somewhere in the concrete, with pebbles, and maybe some mercury.
Now she knew why the bottle had belonged to her.
He wasn’t sure what was to be done, was he to keep his ‘masterpiece’ to himself or hand it over to him? Memories from the past flashed in front of him, and he found himself back in his childhood.
He adored his little, colorful bird. But he couldn’t cage her, because she said so. And he couldn’t trust her either, what if she flew away? She said she would never leave him, but he was too insecure because she was after all one of the most precious, loveliest birds ever created. So he held her carefully and cut her red and yellow wings with a scissor, most lovingly.
He smiled at his idea, at ‘God’s help’ and his instinct, and picked up his carved pot. Then he threw it far away with all his might and looked as it shattered into a million, unmendable pieces.
The End. [wtt]
پیاری تتلی۔۔ تم اڑتی کیوں نہیں ہو؟ یہ درندوں کی دنیا ہے۔۔ یہاں بھلا تمھارا کیا کام؟
تم اڑ جاؤ ۔۔ ایسا کرو ھمیشہ کے لئے اڑ جاؤ۔۔
یہ دنیا تمھارے لئے نہیں ہے۔۔ تم اپنے باغ میں جا کر گھومو، پھرو، میں کچھ نہیں کہوں گا۔
ہاں اگر یہیں بیٹھی رھیں تو میں تمھیں مَسل دونگا۔
مگر میں جاؤں کہاں پیارے؟ میرے پَر تو تم کاٹ چکے ہو؟
اس رنگین دنیا میں بےشک میرا کوئی کام نہیں۔ مگر تم خدارا مجھے یہیں رہنے دو۔۔ درندوں کی دنیا میں۔۔
ذات کے پرندے بہرحال ‘خودی’ کے درندوں سے بہتر ہوتے ہیں۔۔
اکیلی اس دنیا کی طرف گئی تو واپسی ناممکن ہوجائےگی۔ تم سمجھتے کیوں نھیں ہو؟
There are words that are said, and there are words that are felt. But there always is a way to express!
life provides two traveling companions –
love and pain.
and who can tell between the two?
love and pain, one and the same,
for each are and always will be:
ugly as beautiful,
attractive as horrifying,
dangerous as safe,
irresistible as intolerable,
hopeless as promising,
invaluable as worthless.
love and pain, companions and foes.
both serve identical functions:
to remind you that you are alive,
and make you wish you were dead.
For long I try in vain to create
A picture, a sketch of the feeling great
A feeling too subtle to be described
A feeling too immense to be inscribed
I tried so hard and tried so long
Only to realize that I was all wrong
Love is a feeling that can’t be drawn
It can just be felt and touched upon
I was so stupid to capture the formless
The mighty, immense; vast and endless
How could I capture the one containing all
The happy, the sad, the big and the small?
If hatred is a sketch, then love is the page
If hatred is a play, then love is the stage
If hatred is knife, then love is the sheath
Love is the sky with all emotions beneath
Love is the canvas on which you drew hatred
But it is all too large, unaltered and sacred
On this are drawn joys, smiles and fears
On this chuckles the child, on this flows tears
Love is the ocean, formless and immense
Containing feelings: jolly, dark, deep and intense…
Many thanks for drawing it along, and teaching things through your poetry. And for staying around and painting your words for me! (=
I hate you because:
you were never there when and where
I wanted you to be.
I hate you because:
you never spoke a single lie,
but left me craving to hear.
I hate you because:
you never showed you cared
though you were aware of it all.
I hate you because:
you never told me about you
and never heard about me.
I hate you because:
you left me to live in that dark alley
and never turned back to see.
I hate you because:
you knew my music by heart
yet you never played those notes.
I hate you because:
you were the only torchbearer
yet you never showed it this path.
I hate you because:
you could have been my savior
yet you chose to teach the hard way.
I hate you because:
I can never hate you
No matter how hard I try to.
YOU will be there, and WE together Some place in paradise; a lovely weather PRESENT to be present, and present rejoiced FUTURE to be discovered not now, later. Life be lived with hopes and DREAMS No pain stays FOREVER, however it seems
RAINBOW follows dark clouds, at both extremes!
Inspired by The Daily Prompt: SEVEN WONDERS.
Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us SEVEN.
About my rainbow:
The poem consists of seven lines. Each line consists of seven words. The seven words highlighted in the text are the seven words that I chose, and it’s a rainbow because a rainbow denotes ‘seven’.
YOU. WE. PRESENT. FUTURE. DREAMS. FOREVER. RAINBOW
Note that there is no I .
Seven related posts:
- I see on this Earth: | The Visionary Hollow
- 7 | Hope* the happy hugger
- Super Seven | thinkerscap
- You got me | dawnyhosking
- Touched by Seven. | Blue Loft
- SEVEN WORDS, SEVEN MYSTERIES | SERENDIPITY
- The Only Seven Words Left In The World | sayanything
says the daily prompt
That’s totally impossible!
Cried the girl and stomped
Tell us about it
They repeat again
What am i to say?
her protests go in vain
tell us about a time
you had no words to say
Well that happens a lot!
with my senses do they play
Tell us, tell us, do they call
Tell us about it, tell us all
Fine then I shall, so said her
and unveil here some moments blur
But listen to me with heart brave
Cautions she with a sound grave
I’ll tell you about that time last..
her eyes surveying parts of past
I’ll open to you each hint, imprint..
Her mind throbbing, as she squint
I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you
suddenly she screams
Rubbing her clenched fist
In emotions extreme
I’ll explain to you such happenings
of haunting nights and mornings
I’ll tell you, I’ll tell each and all
shouts she, before she stumbles and falls
Her pattering heart skips fast a beat
thud and thump as she dropped on feet
Whimpering, limping, she strives to stand
a hand advanced, she couldn’t withstand
You never came forward, you never helped out
she looked blankly, eyes filled with doubt
Weren’t you the same to ask her speak?
where are you now as she dies, weak?
Didn’t you ask her to express, to try?
but you’re nowhere close to stop her cry
You’ve gone because you had come to go
It will take time yes, I’ll get this though
just make sure you never ask another to ‘express’
for it’s harder than you know, to speak or confess.
In response to the Daily Prompt: Express Yourself
“Tell us about a time you couldn’t quite get your words or images to express what you wanted to express. What do you think the barrier was? For bonus points, try again.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us EXPRESSION.”
میں خاموشی سےکہانی بْنتی ہوں۔ تم کہاں مصروف ھو ؟’
میرے خیالات توسیلاب کی مانند ھیں۔ تم بند کیوں لگوانا چاھتے ھو؟
آجاؤ مل بیٹھ کے ھم کردار سنبھال لیتے ھیں۔ تم مجنوں بنو گے یا رام پری؟
تم غصّہ کیوں ھوتے ھو؟ میں تو مذاق کر رھی تھی۔
ہاں ہاں میں واقعی مذاق کر رھی تھی۔ لو ہنس لو اب تم۔۔’ـ’
وہ کیا جانے۔ کیسے جانے کیوں کر جانے آخر۔
کہتا ھے اپنی ذات کے حصّے پنہاں رکھے ھیں میں نے۔ اب زرا بتلاؤ! ذات بھی کبھی چھپ سکی ھے پیارے؟
ہاں البتّہ اگر کوئی جاننا ھی نہ چاھتا ھو۔
ذات تو چھپا دی جاتی ھے۔ بند کردی جاتی ھے۔ گم کردی جاتی ھے۔حالات کی بھینٹ چڑھا دی جاتی ھے۔
ذات تو خون ھے! بہتا رہتا ھے، رستا رہتا ھے۔ گرچہ اگر تم چاہو تو دیکھو۔ مگر تم چاہو گے کیوں؟
!سنو دیکھو تو ذرا یہاں پر زخم ھے کوئی۔ خون رستا رہتا ھے۔۔یہ کیسی تکلیف ھے؟
!مگر تم تو سمجھتے ھو میں ھنستی ھوں، مسکراتی ھوں، بات کرتی ھوں تو میں خوش ھوں
!خوشی گر اس کو کہتے ھیں تو خدایا! خوشی نہ دینا کسی کو
رگِ جاں سے جو لپٹ جائے، روح تک کو جو نگل جائے وہ خوشی کیا ھے؟
‘تم کہتے ھو خامشی کی زباں پہ کمال حاصل ھے تمھیں۔
مجھے ذرا بتلاؤ میری ذات کے دریچے وا کیوں نہ کئے اب تک؟
میرے در و دیوار تو پگھلنے لگے ھیں، زنگ آلود ھونے لگے ھیں۔۔
تو کیا تم یہی چاھتے تھے؟ میرے مندر کی گھنٹی ھمیشہ یوں ھی بجا کر بھاگ جاؤ گے؟
یہ زنجیریں سڑنے لگی ھیں پیارے۔ مجھے ڈر ھے یہ ٹوٹ نہ جائیں۔۔
کیونکہ اگر یہ ٹوٹ گئیں تو میں بھی بکھر جاوں گی۔
تو یوں کرو کہ تم چلے جاو۔ ھاں ھمیشہ کے لئے۔
میں روز روز ایک ھی سزا نہیں جی سکتی پیارے۔ مجھے ایک ھی دفعہ میں توڑ پھوڑ دو؟’
میں تم سے خوشیاں تو نھیں مانگ رھی ہوں جو تم اس قدر حقارت سے دیکھتے ھو۔
میں تو صرف اپنی وفاؤں کی جزا مانگ رہی ھوں۔۔
!یہ دیکھو کشکول لئے آج تمھارے مزار پہ حاضر ھوں، بھکاری بنی بیٹھی ھوں۔۔
یوں کرو کہ اپنی خاک سے مجھے معطر ھونے دو۔۔۔یوں کرو کہ مجھے امر کر دو۔۔۔
Diaries were her favorite possessions. Especially that mauve colored, thick, velvety diary. It was more special to her than anything else in the world, as she once told me.
Beginning to write in a brand new diary appears to be one of the most difficult tasks in the world, and we both agreed to that. Because one must seriously consider what use that lovable creature could bring, they after all were divine things. After a considerable amount of time she had finally decided what her object would collect; she will write her daily musings and personal rants into it. She will call it her ‘personal journal’, her ‘dear diary’.
All these years I had never seen her open herself into anybody else but her dd, she trusted only it. Nobody could ever believe it if they were told, that it were only a simple set of pages that she adorn too much. But I could, for I knew what significance those pages held for her. I was a diary-lover myself.
I was. I am no more. Because I shudder when I reminisce her dreadful demise.
It was one windy winter night, a December night to be exact, when the ‘dementor’ in her destroyed it cruelly. A strong jab from a sharp knife pierced the velvety mauve cover from the middle; and the dark purple ribbon that was tied in a bow with a tiny purple sequin was torn. But that single stab wasn’t enough. Her wild self called her to selfishly avenge each page, for having stored her prettiest of memories. Like a hypnotized victim did she obey, and individually tore every single page, scratched harshly some lines on her favorite poems and cut stupidly each name that she once wrote lovingly. What couldn’t be destroyed with knife or pen was rubbed by hand, for she was destined to erase it all and not leave a single sign.
It was after some long minutes struggle, or perhaps some hours time that she finally recovered and her demented soul crashed – And for the next more hours she sobbed silently in a corner of her room. Her thunderous screams had by now converted themselves into soft, muffled sobs and her spirited energy had collapsed into a helpless, clueless person.
She had called me that day, and yet she never spoke. I kept on asking what the matter was but all my efforts had gone in vain. She had promised not to speak and she kept to it, and she kept to it such that she didn’t even allow herself to ask her anything else. What, when, or how it had happened, she knew not. And her silence only murdered what ever part of her was left, for the next day I witnessed her death.
It won’t be wrong to say that she was obsessed with ‘diaries’ because there was nobody else that she could care for. The pure soul she was deserved not a single gift of heartache. When I entered into her room the other day I could see what had happened there. Others can not even imagine what that night must have been, but I had a chance to actually sense it because that is what she left there for me to feel, herself.
Beneath her crumpled, torn-apart pages lied fragments of her unhappy life; from her ugly days to her poignant nights and all those unbearably torturous moments that came between the phases of day and night, all laid there but now dead. Dead as she was.
Tears blocked my vision as I saw her coffined body in the spacious lawn outside, how peacefully did she imitate herself to be. Her nonliving body rested uncomfortably for sure, but she had postured it such to pretend calmness, calm that she never was. A bright smile decorated her white face, and made them all praise how peacefully she had gone! Oh how peacefully, please ask me.
They lifted her away in no time, some faked hysterical cries and some really did weep. But it wasn’t long after she had gone that they all prepared to leave too, oh how they loved her.
I was left alone there, and so I entered into her room again. But all those pieces had disappeared, those pages were all gone! However it didn’t shock me, for I knew that had to happen. Dementors of self are the dementors of worst kinds.
Her purple bow-ribbon was surprisingly still there, perhaps they had forgotten to hide it. While I quickly turned to pick it up, what astonished me was an untouched, whole page from her diary close by! Mixed emotions of fear and fulfillment ran down my spine but alas! I failed to move an inch towards it for my feet had stuck to the floor.
I wasn’t asked what I wanted to do, and it was made clear that I could only return if I never dared to touch it. So I took my steps backward and left the room with a heavy heart, forever.
© 2013 Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*.
This is an updated version of this post.
Perhaps it was a pretty nasty day when my ink bled thus. Never wanted to post this but a recent death of a complete stranger reminded me of how it chases and follows anywhere and everywhere.
Got published on: LoversOfDarkness.com.
This *online painting* is for Pamela, a new blogging friend, and a lovely soul. The lines that follow are excerpts from her own work about ‘the moon’:
With eyes twinkling in tears,
I mumbled…“U can’t be mine…But can I be yours…??”
As your mystic smile surfaced…
I whispered on with utter haste…
“I need you much more than you will ever need me…
Because I need to be needed by you…
“I can’t even say we are made for each other…
You may be made for Me…
But I am mad for you…”
Mae dosry shehar me rehti hun
Mae tum jesi ho hi nahi sakti
Mera karna dharna mery rasm o riwaj
Mera dharam bharam mera kappra libaas
Kbhe tum jesa ye ho nhi sakta.
Mae jeeti alag hun marti alag hun
Khati alag hun peeti alag hun
Tmhary shehar me baarish hoti hogi
Meray shehar me sirf khoon hy barasta
Meray shehar me aag hae jalti
Meray shehar me lashein haen girti
Tum apny shehar ki baarish ko
Kuch waqt yahan kia bhej nhi sakteen?
Written for Mahwi, and one other friend.
She said it was raining. I told her it wasn’t. She complained that we live in the same city. So I wrote to her that. So yes, we live in the same city. But you see, each of us lives in a city of their own – or perhaps a world of their own: unique and personal.
That’s one meaning to it. The other is in reference to someone who really doesn’t live in the same city – or country.
Apologies to those who couldn’t understand the Urdu-English text above and found it nothing more than a bibbery-a-bibbery-boo! (If possible, I’ll post a translation someday soon.)C: Maria I. *Randomly Abstract*
When in my silent mode, I tend to hear myself.
Only that I fail each time I try.
There is this catastrophe inside, this outburst, this
Storm. Too many sounds, too much noise and yet,
too much of Silence.
There is this empty feeling not empty at all,
These pangs, these shivers, these sharp edges
which I fail to bend, that I fail to curve.
Feels like you are projecting continuously, some
Stones on my heart’s wall. Do you know not
How does a mirror feel? When it bears cracks?
Or how does a finger feel when you pierce – ouch
When you pierce forcefully, some thorns?
Or perhaps a chunk of that broken mirror,
How does it feel?
Ask me. Only that I know not
What to answer and how.
I can not be perfect,
I hate perfection.
I can not please you,
I go my own direction.
I may cause disappointment,
I may root misconception.
But I will create patches,
Whenever tears our relation.
I will keep to stand there
And wait for your reception.
Notes: Sounds meaningless? Great!
Inspiration: 3 words challenge.
( © Maria )
Or Pains I Offer
And Love You Bestow.
Notes: Entry for the weekly photo challenge: Saturated. “It can be black and white, a single color, a few hues, or a complete rainbow riot; just make sure it’s rich and powerful.”
Not rich, neither powerful. Just saturated.
Image copyright: Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*