Picture Credits: http://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/yemen-then-and-now-the-sad-chronicle-of-a-failed-state
For you, it’s like a ball,
You strike and throw it to others’ field and then wait for the strike back.
It is a football game between few world powers.
‘Oh well, it’s political’, you would say.
‘We have nothing personal in it’, I hear you add!
But all those beings, losing lives,
The mothers who lost their children,
The kids who lost their teddy bears and Moms,
Don’t you look at it?????
But aaaah why would you?? Why should you??
Because you are right…It is Actually, NOT PERSONAL!
Ooooh no, not at all!
Those dead children and mothers who are rendered childless,
Those lost kids sans their teddy bears and Moms
They do not belong to you.
IT IS NOT PERSONAL…you are right. IT IS MERE POLITICS…Cold-blooded, Fucking Politics!
Have you known blankness
And navigation inside it
A place where you can’t see anything
Can’t feel either (mostly)
You keep moving
As if on auto
Like the arms of a battery driven clock
Unknowing of the season
And may be navigating the blankness only requires a gear on auto…
And may be that’s enough…
To love is a sickness,
To love is an ecstasy,
Of happiness and of pain.
To love is light in the darkness,
Yet at times it makes us feel the darkest.
To love is breaking, becoming and breaking, yet again.
To love is knowing what one never thought, could exist.
To love is losing oneself,
And finding, what one never thought, one had.
To love is tearing apart,
and gelling into the One.
To love is like a burning candle…melting away, bit by bit by bit.
To love is like circling around the beloved, like a moth,
Giving away to the flame and becoming an ashed nothing-ness.
To love is to love to the smallest of pieces of one’s being,
until, nothingness vanishes into nothingness…
…And after days or weeks or months
When I wake up from my numbness
I think of you
And scribble a word or two
Sometimes I manage more
So then I write a letter to you
A long one
A letter with silent words
My letter resonates the tale of my life in between the silence of my words
But then before I finish my story
The life strikes again
And I put down my pen
To write it some other time…
And sometimes the only solace one can find
Happens to be, in the moving arms of a clock
…that ‘this shall pass too….’
I saw the lifeless body of the toddler in the arms of the hospital worker
Mud and blood mixed on the face of the child and his arms loosely hanging on the side
I saw two slightly bigger children running after the hospital worker
They too were covered with mud and blood, but looked ‘ok’
I looked into their eyes through the camera that captured their video
And the eyes of these children had questions and tears both
They mechanically described how they were playing outside and a bomb fell
In a blink the house came crashing down and the rubble had hit them
The little one of the two couldn’t say more
He just said, “My mother was inside” and fell silent and a tear casually fell off his eyes
I, being the ‘sensitive’ one couldn’t take more
With one slight move of the thumb I moved down to my timeline…