Wistful Winter

Can you listen more closely?

Can you hear the wind shattering?

Can you see the naked rods dancing on their own?

Can you feel the winter walking slowly through the alley?

Can you touch the wall and taste the cold outside?

Can you look through the windows and watch the night shivering?

Can you jump inside a blanket and still not want to feel warm?

Can you breathe over a mirror and see yourself disappear?

Can you sip a cup of coffee but want to drown in it too?

Can you bite into a crusted cake and let it melt on your palate?

Can you taste the dates in your goblet and see them smiling at you?

Can you hear steam stitching the minute rice granules together?

Can you blind yourself in the fog and walk calmly to the end?

Can you hear the mist spreading through the branches and into their hearts?

Can you impress a lighter shade over the dark-cold railings?

Can you ask the river why it still remains warm underneath?

Can you dream the nature in your nightly reveries?

Can you learn how the rodents sleep buried beneath frozen grounds?

Can you warm the scattered lights less brighter than the burning stars?

Can you make the stylus memorize and chant the fallen murmurs?

Can you freeze December and store it in a cryptex?

Can you pamper the summer and bribe it into oblivion?

Can you remember the winter and recite it forever?

Can you do all this but not love the season more? 

Lunatic Futility

I saw the moon when it was just past evening,

The sky was still lit and the stars only half awaken.

On the east side, the satellite lay hung

It is a part of this Earth, only brighter

A rock was once loose in the Chaos

It hit the subtle earth, loosening a globe of white and black.

I chose to sit down and write a black lettered poem,

Now I realise my words cannot realize

The white moon

Scattering the darkness away with its sunlit golden scent.

But poems cannot describe

What a tragedy in a prose can only dare to narrate,

A picture is a still image,

While words flow like unbidden Lethe.

Let me thus grudgingly proclaim that

No medium is complete enough to pour in the moon

In a vessel, which is only as unscathed as the goddess Mnemosyne. 

WonderLand

          Jason had come a long way when he realized he forgot to bring his snow boots. It snowed a lot last year, which he only heard of. And this year he plans to not go back to the city until next year. Even Santa may fail to arrive in time, but snow in the country arrives a lot earlier than anybody can expect. His father along with his grandparents moved to the city many years ago. Since then he hasn’t got to come to the country and see where they grew up and where his father used to do horseback-riding. His mother was an alien to his father who borrowed his heart, savored it and then left Jason to him. She surely took nothing with her, but all that she cared to leave behind was never hers to own in the first place. It could have all been a lie, if he hadn’t met her two years back, in Amsterdam coaxing a novelty guy to name his daughter (with his wife, who is a separate woman) after her. It was quite funny, because that was when he got to know her name. His father was amazed to know that anyone like her could have a name like Paris. It’s actually quite weird that Jason never felt her need or her absence. Maybe it was because there was no craving from her side as well.

          The countryside always looked beautiful in the pictures. This is the first time he is here. Well, this is the first time after he’s grown up. His father, Gary, who doesn’t like this place anymore, only told him to check if the old truck in the old garage is alright. Gary wants to sell it. So the first lock he opened was the garage’s. The truck seemed to be in an unusually good condition, given that it has not been used for 22 years. Gary is going to get a good profit out of it. That’s good. There’s a door in the back of the garage that leads into the adjacent house. But Jason chose to go inside the house through the front door. Front-door-entrance is a thing to Jason. When he switched on the lights, he found that the house is also in a very good condition, except the thick layer of dust. It now seems like a big shot to even think about staying here for two weeks. Jason is just too lazy when it comes to cleaning even if it’s his pencil sharpener. The rest of his family, which means his grandparents and Gary, however, are very neat about everything. It’s just laziness gained though practice. No genes working here. But Jason is also not okay with filth. And that is why the dust is bothering him now. Maybe, he would think about going back to the city.  

          Before anything else, he wants to look through the house where his father grew up. Checking houses and villages where your father grew up seems like a common interest throughout the world. However most of the people don’t know why they feel so eager about it. But Jason knows why. He idolizes his father, and this house bears witness to the life of that person before Paris happened to him. From the stories he heard from his granma, Gary used to be a very mischievous boy and listened to nobody. Buying a horse at the age of 14 kinda points that out. And Gary learned to ride it all by himself. He named it Arion. Arion died of a disease when Gary was 18. Arion was actually Gary’s age. And it was then Paris came into his life. Jason has seen Arion’s pictures. It had honey-colored fur and a black mane. Arion was fast. He was the only horse in the area, and Gary the only person to ever have a horse in the area. Jason could easily realize that those 4 years with Arion were Gary’s heyday. The house, for some unknown reason smells of maple syrup. Maple is not even a local tree. Jason suddenly became interested in finding the reason behind this smell. He tried to follow the smell and ended up in the dining room. But there was nothing good enough to be the source of the smell. Jason went into the kitchen. Nothing. But he found a stack of wood for the oven. Maybe those were maple wood. But moving close to the stack, he lost the smell. So he decided not to disturb the neat stack. He then started to go upstairs. It was dark at first. He couldn’t find the switch. He found one, pressed it, but in vain. He kept groping the walls in the dark. He needed to dust off the cobweb a number of times. Finally he found the right switch and the whole corridor came into light.

          All of the rooms were locked. He went into the last room of the corridor. It is Gary’s. Well, it was Gary’s. All the stuff inside is just as he had heard. There was a big bed beside the west facing window, a wardrobe, which still has Gary’s clothes, a trunk beside it, which should contain his father’s school books, a writing desk with a single sofa. Gary wasn’t a fan of books back then as opposed to his present love for thrillers. Jason is more into fantasy and war novels. Sometimes they exchange books between themselves. They both have a library in their rooms. Jason however has a larger collection. There’s no competition though. He switched on the lights and found Arion’s backseat hung up on the wall behind the headboard. Cobwebs have now made the dark leather seat look grayish. To hell with filth, Jason took down the backseat and cleaned it off of cobwebs. It has Gary and Arion’s name written on its sides. Gary. Arion. None of them are same now. The former runs a shoe-business, but does not have to worry about the latter’s iron ones. Jason took the seat, switched off the lights, closed and locked the door, and went downstairs.

         He forgot to switch off the corridor lights, so he went back up again only to find a door labeled Jason. He had totally forgotten about this. Gary had primarily thought of raising Jason there, so he was preparing his room. But Jason heard that he couldn’t do much and left the country forever. Gary doesn’t remember what he had put inside the room and his grandparents also know not more than that. He put the key in and turned. The door opened without noise. He switched on the light and found only one piece of furniture there. A bookshelf. As large as the one he has back home. He walked closer to it. There’s a metal label on the middle shelf, which read WonderLand. It might be the brand name. Apart from the shelf, there was nothing more. Memories were to be made in this room, but it never happened. He closed and locked the door, and went downstairs after switching off the lights. Jason left the house with Arion’s backseat and a name for his bookshelf. 

Being Starstruck

I can go and ask if Sky's lonely. I can go and ask if she needs company. I can accompany her and talk to her. We can laugh at the same jokes. We can skip the same sort of stories.

We'll ask questions,

The answers will be as vast as dear Sky is,

We'll dance on the emotions

That skip our heart in a heartbeat.

I wonder, can there be any exception? I care not. I care for that smile; the smile that shines upon the stars. I heard about a lad, who wishes to sell shade. I wonder if I can buy some shine & add to her smile...

She says, now stars are the part

Of the world below,

Where they burn through hearts,

And pay bounty to all hollow,

I say, shine and shade are two colors of the same art,

A trail of wonders that'd never go mellow.

I can daringly say, her beauty is unparalleled. For, if it weren't so, why, I'lln't be starstruck everytime!

To The King

Today I lay down my crown,

But know this, I am no king.

The real King is the one

Whose one hand holds a zither,

Close to his heart

His heart the source of his muse;

And whose other hand rises high

When tricky notes take place

And his voice lifts souls

That lie in faraway lands & across.

The real King is the one

Who worships a swan riding goddess -

She be who holds a veena across her bosom

Plucking the strings with a cosmic radiance;

She be who holds up her hand

In a gesture of eternal blessing;

She be who gives knowledge

As a song which was born from our voices.

The real King is the one

Whose name is now known far across -

Let me say, the Milky Way,

Because music resided in the strings

Long before they were tied, then plucked,

And once they were so -

The whole of Cosmos listened to it

In a quiet broken only by an applause.

I may rule no kingdom,

But I humble my honor unto the King.

জানালা

দুইদিন আগেই পূর্ণিমা চলে গেছে, তবু আকাশের চাঁদটা যেন তার রূপ আরও বেশ কয়েকদিন ধরে রাখতে চায়। মনে হয়, ভুলে গেছে, সে নিজেই দায়বদ্ধ। এদিকে নতুন আবাস পেয়ে ব্যাঙরাও বুঝি নতুন নতুন সুর উদ্ভাবন করে গেয়ে চলেছে রাত-দিন - হয়তো এ শুধু সঙ্গীকে পাওয়ার গান নয়। আমাদের সাথে থাকতে থাকতে ওরাও বুঝি মৃত্যু-ধাতু সংগীত গাইতে শিখে গেছে। কে তা জানে।... টেবিলের পাশে খাট, খাটের পাশে বড় একটা সেকেলে জানালা। খিড়কি দিয়ে দেখলেও, দুপাল্লা খুলে দেখলেও, ওপাশের দৃশ্যটা অচেনাই মনে হয়। একসময় যেখানে ছিল একশ বছর পুরোনো দালানকোঠা, যার দেয়ালের চুন-সুড়কির পরতের পেছনে লুকিয়ে থাকা ইটগুলো আজও বুঝি কত গল্প বলতো - কিন্তু সব আজ উধাও। জানালা দিয়ে তাকালে শুধু ধূধূ প্রান্তর চোখে পড়ে। না, এখানে মোটা-চিকন কোনো কেউই পড়ে নি। যা হয়েছে উন্নয়নের জন্য হয়েছে। আমার বাড়িটাও এই উন্নতিতে সাহায্য করেছে। তার এক পাশ ছিঁড়ে নিয়েছে তারা। সেই ধ্বংসস্তুপ, থুক্কু, ভগ্নস্তুপের ধূলাগুলি সারাদিন বেয়াদবের মতো ঘুরে বেড়ায়। আর রাতে এসে দেখি আমার টেবিলের ওপর সব ঘাঁটি গেড়েছে। ফু, লাঠি- লাত্থি, ঝাটা-কম্বল - যা দিয়ে পারি ওদের তাড়িয়ে বিদায় করি। ভাবি জানালাটা বন্ধ করে রাখব, কিন্তু সেক্ষেত্রে লোকসান আমারই। এত গরম পড়েছে। ঘরে একটু বাতাস না ঢুকলে, কেমন লাগে! কাঠফাটা রোদে কাঁঠালও পেকে যাচ্ছে, তাই বলে আমার মাথা ফাটে নি কিংবা অন্যকিছু, আমি বলতে চাই যে এত গরম সহ্য হয় না। বছরের অর্ধেকটা যদি শহরটা বরফে ধাকা থাকতো, কী যে মজা হতো! এটা আলাদা বিষয়, তখন ঠান্ডাকে গালাগাল করে হা- হুতাশ করে মরতাম। তবে বরফ পড়লে হয়তো বা তখন আর জানালা খুলতে পারতাম না। একশ বছরের বেশি ধরে কত কি না সহ্য করেছে, এখন বরফ সইতে পারবে কি না, তা বোধ হয় কেবল জানালারই জানা আছে। আক্ষেপ হয়, জানালাও যদি কথা বলতো। দৃশ্যটা কেমন হতো তাই ভেবেই তো কুল পাই না। কোনো কিছু হওয়া-না হওয়ার পেছনেও কারণ আছে। জানালা যে কথা বলে না, এর মধ্যেও কারণ আছে। আসল কথা হলো, সেই কারণের খোঁজ আমি কখনও রাখি নি, আগামীতেও রাখব না। কারণ, ভবিষ্যতে এই জানালাটাই থাকবে না। এর কারণ? ওই যে, উন্নয়ন। ভালো ও খারাপ, সহোদর তো বটেই, বোধ করি তারা সহোধরও হবে। আশ্চর্য কাকে বলে, তা আমি ভুলতে বসেছি। এদিকে যখন আকাশের চাঁদটা একটু অতিরিক্ত সুন্দর লাগছে, রাস্তার পাশে ব্যাঙগুলো না জানি কোন ভাষায় কি বলছে, মাঝেমধ্যে মশকীরা এসেও চুমু দিয়ে যায়, মাঝরাত পেরিয়ে সেহরির সময়ও বুঝি এগিয়ে এলো, আর আমি একা বসে আছি বিছানাতে, হাতে খোলা কলমের নিচে রশিটানা খাতা আর সামনে পর্দাহীন নির্লজ্জের মতো খোলা রয়েছে জানালা। 

Song Of The River

She is not the violent of her types,

But her violence is a beauty,

To me

and many other eyes.

She has her heart

spilled over the shores,

She is a goddess,

she is a part of the lores.

When she shines her gaze

up towards the heavens,

Stars swell in her lushness,

their hearts she so leavens.

You can see her smiling,

with her earthen vest so vast.

Time runs as if anew,

an era lost in her lust.

When she was young,

there was coy in her trance.

She ran down along mountains,

there was joy in her stance.

Now they seek to bind her

with iron, that her element can erode

And reap business from her bosom.

Her chest too smitten to goad.

Many have kept their quiet,

But some have drawn their words.

Call it a war, and the tunes are ready,

Unleashing her wrath, the river will again breathe steady.

The Dark Of the Barks

      They come in all sizes - large and small, tiny and tall. But nobody cowers under the shade of the other. For, they all live in order to live. The bigger ones, however, possess a majestic elegance around their bark and along their infinite branches. The branches might be countable. But the ones that sleep in the nodes waiting to be cut awaken are countless. As if they have sucked in possibilities from the ground and rolled it through their tissues to let it loose every time they run short of one. An endless stock of possibilities running through the sap that flourishes them.

      They can live for years surpassing the soul that might have planted them. But the oldest ones alive now were not planted by anyone. They found themselves breaking the soil and reaching for the sun all by themselves. Not that they need any help in breaking soils and extracting life from it. The soil we consider as dirt, the soil we consider as a mode of art, the soil we scorch to harden history, the soil we bury our loss into, the soil we dig to surface the past, the soil which is of no use to us, unless we need it direly. But to them, the soil is their soul. The soil flows through their vessels and quench the thirst of every leaf. And when they wither away, the soil lives in them as dried ghosts of memory that would remind us of forgiveness if they could speak, at least once.

      They have been here when we were not. They had seen the sun before we did. As a matter of fact, they are the only ones to taste the sun. We humans may know what the sun is composed of, what it'd feel if we fall into it - possibly a fate worse than falling into a black hole. They know how the sun rays feel. We may have a distant idea, but they are the ones who can feel the rays filling their cellular cavities. They can pour the sun into their soul, but still not burn up. The sun only intensifies their green, but never tans them. The sun can love them, and they can rejoice in it. The sun loves them and they selfishly grow in it.

      And they love water. They drink the water that’s buried deep into the grounds. They drink the water that we waste in a prosaic way. They waste water too, but only to get it back. Very economical they are. The clouds floating in the dry sky are indebted to them. Because much of their reserves are filled with the water escaping the pores lining the leaves. And so every time it rains, we can see them to grow brighter in their shade of green. Like the woman who lost her beauty only to age. Like the man who lost his strength only to age. But beauty and strength come hand in hand. Like the drops of rain that only reaches their soul through dirt. 

Docile and omnipotent at its own stable door

They are not the rulers of the sky. They don’t have thrones etched with gold. They don’t have crowns glinting with numerous jewels. But they are the lords, who sail on their own wings. They have eyes that can see miles ahead. Their necks are not lined with laces, but with feathers. Or sometimes just bare.

They don’t have castles made of stone and aluminum. They don’t have forts with canals snaking around it. They build their homes with twigs. Each twig is gathered separately and with care. And with those twigs they set up their haven up high in the furthest branch of a tree. In these havens, they lay eggs and hatch them with warmth plucked from their bosom. The small beaks breaking out from the eggs twit and twit, until filled with food. The small wings grow as the tree grows and withers. The small wings slowly befriend the wind, which will career them as long as they live. The wind is their friend. Their only friend. Even the mother who nourished and flourished them leaves them one day. But the wind remains. The wind remains when the sun is shining brightly. The wind remains when the sun is made to hide behind tones of cloud. The wind remains when the clouds give up their burden and hail down pouring whole of their hearts. The wind remains even when the wind forgets their friendship and becomes pregnant with animosity. The wind always remains. They grow up with the forever young wind and one day die, but not without flapping their wings not once, but twice.

They are born with wings which humans dream of. Their lives are as momentary as the hum of a humming bird. Their independence is the sky multiplied by the span of their wings. It is the wings, which sheltered them when they couldn’t fly. And it is the wings, whose feathers shed and grow back just like the swerve through firths and bosks. Physically they are all bones and muscles and blood. They spread their wings as an artist who spreads his/her colors across the mind of their admirers and make them wander in wonder. Their wings carry their lives and make them fly over lands and seas and deserts and ice. It is their wings which cut through the wind and take them to places unknown and well-known. It is with the wings that they bind their first bond with the wind. It is the wings that may not fulfill the function of a human hand, but gives them superiority in the notion of self-independence. These winged-lords are the master of the wind, which no soul can tame.

They live a life as burdened as any animal, but still as light as a feather. They live a life on an edge as sharp as a talon, but still as vagrant as the crows’ calls. They live a life as vibrant as the chirping of a restless bird, but still as well-steered as the south of a magnet is to the north of another.

They live free in this death-bound world.

Cosmos

“Have you seen the Cosmos?”

“I’ve seen pictures on TV and online. Why?”

“What if I tell you it’s as close to you as your own heartbeat?”

“What? How can that be?”

“It is.”

“How can something so vast be so close to me? I have to carry it inside me, if that is true.”

“You are carrying it inside you.”

“Just because I am a goddess to you does not mean I can carry something like that inside me.”

“It’s not about that. We are all carrying the Cosmos inside us.”

“How so?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Okay, did.”

“What do you see?”

“Darkness? Nothing?”

“Try to concentrate a bit.”

“Concentrate on what?”

“The darkness behind your eyelids.”

“Okay…what am I supposed to see?”

“Do you see something sparkling? Minute, but sparkling?”

“I don’t know…”

“Focus.”

“It seems like there are so many shiny dots.”

“Tell me more about them.”

“The darkness seems endless and the dots are floating in it.”

“And?”

“They are so many, countless dots. Some even seem to cluster.”

“Can you see if the dots have any color or not?”

“I don’t know. It’s like stars. From far away they all seem white, though they are all not white.”

“So, what if the dots are really stars?”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Yes, I can’t be. But what if?”

“How…”

“I think the Cosmos is generous. It flows through all of us. If Cosmos was a person, and could close his/her eyes, wouldn’t he/she be seeing the same thing as you are?”

“But we can already see the stars at night…”

“What if we don’t need night to look at the stars? What if we could be the Cosmos who created us?”

“You sound crazy, but…”

“But?”

“I think it’s really wonderful. Behind my eyelids, I feel like I am somewhere deep into the space. It does not feel dark anymore.”

“How does it feel, then?”

“I feel like being a part of it, a part of the darkness. I feel like I am endless, I feel like I am the stars and the stars are me. It’s as if…”

“As if…?”

“As if…”

“Hmn?”

“I feel like Cosmos.”

“I know.”

I Wish You Three

Wishing is an easy task,

Like a bird's nest on a tree,

The stretch of their wings,

First at dawn, but not the last at dusk;

But here I take the moment,

To wish you only the three.

I wish you melodies.

They live in rooms brassed with reeds,

But they go rampant as a breath,

Still so warm, as the bosom it had left.

I wish you all the four winds.

They are separate as the cardinals,

But they bring both warm & chilly breeze,

Even if the Anemoi decline, I wish they be at your seize.

But lastly I wish you something more,

I wish you something vast, something endlessly pure,

Something so heavenly, it fulfills all celestial needs.

Yes, I wish you the cosmos sketched behind your eyelids.

Parting Wish

Like the sound of a million stars,

Smoke rises from the wick of delight,

The fragrance of its greysome hue,

Is stagnant, even with the raging insight.

Ink soaked into the vibrant leaves,

And they sketched a story of clay & wine,

Stacked together, the shelves of books,

A picture of sweetness, so deliriously divine.

Let those graphites ring, and

Let those brushes swing, and

Let the pages be full and sing

The flight of six seamless wings.

I See Her

And I see Night.

The last time I saw her,

She was luminous,

She had said,

Her hair is a mess of stars.

I remember,

I didn't say much in reply.

My adamant stare was too stubborn

To leave from between us.

This time,

I feel her shrouded in a cloak of clouds.

I cannot see her,

She is seeing me.

She is flowing towards me.

She is a mess,

But this time with the clouds.

And, I see Night.

For You, Best Friend

Through the bars crafted by mortal hands,

A ray of sunlit sunlight rolls in.

                          ***

High walls with a bit higher roof,

The room was empty, but apparently full,

But the only soul residing within

Was the soul of the room itself;

Trapping stories between the shades of blackness,

With just the mind, for

It needs not need any other tool.

Every nook hidden in the essence of shadow,

Drank the hue of helium from the core of delight,

The incorporeal got the scent, so blissfully ethereal,

Stories turned into books, and dreams into glyphs,

Empty benches, but not so gloomily dull,

Strands of winds dance like dusts of light.

                          ***

The ground feels high as high as the sky,

Every word I wrote, I wrote them for you.

She Is Selene

I'm not sure if I'm happy being a human.

What is its worth?

Can I lust for the moon enough to hide from it when she shows her full face?

Her blood-selene face?

Can I have the moon close enough to hear her breathe?

I can't.

I'm sure I'm not happy being a human.

I wish I were a werewolf.

I would howl with inhuman insanity,

And urge the moon to come down to me.

I would wait for the moon to tether herself with the blood of the cosmos.

I would wait for the moon to shadow the earth with her ethereal light.

The red-light that she bleeds from her white-core.

That light is not stolen.

That light is hers only.

Her blood-selene light.

I wish I were taller.

Maybe then, I could reach her from the ground.

I could hear her breathe.

I could savor her celestial scent.

I could paint her self with the effervesce of her self.

But I'm still a little human.

I can't reach her.

I can only sigh at her blood-selene face.

By The Wind

There is wind below the roof,

There is wind over the grass,

There is wind among the sun-shone trees,

There is wind behind the waves, rushing helplessly past.

There is wind around the eye

Which runs apace with rampant fragility.

The world around turns and turns to chaos,

Lives turn into smiles imposed upon strands of memory.

There is wind beckoning the thunderous clouds

Which drowns the clay and concrete alike

With shards of water that was once earthbound;

Plants relive in glory, ants go running deep inside.

There is wind relishing the afternoon laziness,

There is wind among the surrendering rays of sun,

There is wind careering the scent of freshly brewed tea,

There is wind in the dreams, that keep them afloat in a reverie.

There is wind woven into the blanket

Surrounding us in a cocoon of storms and breezes.

There is wind in the chambers of brass,

And we take flight everytime the wind sings to us. 

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show...

      Possibly the finest and ultimate symbol of freedom, the clouds have chosen so selfishly to stay as far away from the humans, who, at least 100 times in their lifetime, stand still to watch and admire the floating lumps of water vapor. Maybe, it is a hard thing to pin a cloud down, even by themselves. But the thing is, it would also be selfish to call the clouds selfish. Because, they have been up there from the time when the first cloud was born, which was possibly 60 million years ago if not more. At that time there were no such living beings from whom they might have chosen to stay far from, expect of course amino acids who didn't even start to make out. Or...clouds don't like amino acids. Maybe because, amino acids didn't know how to admire them. And since we are the chemical offspring of those amino acids, the clouds chose to dislike us still. So if ever our descendants succeed in making a time machine, which by assumption they have not, it is recommended that they should travel back in time and teach the amino acids how to love and admire the majestic clouds. And how they'd do that, that's up to them. If they can make a time machine, they'll surely be able to speak chemistry. Maybe then, the clouds would come down and let us feel their freedom, let us bathe in their essence of carelessness and ignite our souls with their vast reserves of purity. But there are dark clouds too. Well, there are white clouds and dark clouds. The dark clouds, ironically, remain closer to the human. And the white ones remain far above them. The dark clouds are not bad, though. They might have a few bars less purity, given that they have all that dust that causes their dark color. In fact, if the white clouds are subtle and polite, the dark ones are adverse and disastrous. People tend to dislike the dark ones, for being dark. But people love the rains the dark clouds bring. Possibly, it is those minute drops of liquefied cloud-essence that bridges the connection that lies between a person and the clouds. Because, if you ever catch a cloud and try to pour it in a bottle, you would possibly get a drop of rain or two. So not-loving the dark clouds should be considered a sacrilege and be banned all over the planet. Love the clouds, independent of their color. Maybe someday, they would choose to reward our perseverance we showed in loving them and admiring them, from time immemorial. Maybe that day, the clouds might even agree to dance with us and sing “I’m Happy Just To Dance With You” along with it. And if they do not, let us be happy that we have loved them, and the clouds have showered rain on us in return. And also lightning. And thunder too. And in some places, flakes of snow…  

The Harpist

     It is said, that a night stroll on a lonely road, is always a good place to start. It is not known, who said it, why and when. But Origo always likes it. That’s why, tonight, he is here. The road ahead seems long enough that you can walk along it and die. Origo doesn't care how far it may take him. He is proceeding perhaps to an unknown destination, which he doesn't even want to reach. The night, the road and this walk, is all that matters to Origo. While walking, he looked at the concrete road. He wondered, compared to his weight, if all this road would "react" on him, and Origo attains some great velocity, he might easily reach heaven. It'lln't be that far, then. But, sadly, the roads doesn't seem to react, rather they're lying beneath his feet, lifeless, as if nothing actually matters. Then suddenly, an endless array of roadlights found his notice. For sometan90' reason, Origo fancies roadlights a lot. And, surely, roadlights are fascinating creatures.They stand still always, upon a path, the beginning and end of which, they don't care for. They're bright. That’s all Origo needs for tonight. He surpassed many of them, during which he built an empire of thoughts. Origo thinks a lot. His thoughts are mostly about himself. Manytimes, during these 18 years of his life, he wondered, what about the day when he was born, how he felt and what about that day, when he'll die and how will that feel. These're the 2 feelings, he has always craved to feel. He still does. Perhaps, this walk tonight will quench his thirst, he might be able to feel everything. The night is cold, his warm breathes blurring the air in front of him, for instances and the process goes on. He is still walking. He looked at his wrist-watch, it is not working. "Shit! Why do I always forget to fix this crap!" he sweared, loud enough, that even the forest, which is rumored to lie somewhere ahead, the beasts living inside, like those hooting owls, must have heard it. If one has to ever fancy a bird, Origo chooses owl. Owls look so different and since they look so owlish, Origo's plan for having one as pet, seems suddenly legit. Anyways, as his watch is broken, he has no idea how long he has been walking for, and how late it is. Walking, while such a moment is surpassing, Origo is sure about one thing: either it's just the beginning of the night, or it is never going to end. Origo has only one way to know, to walk, until he stops…

      Perhaps a long time has passed. Yeah, long enough to kill somebody, with all the necessities to live. And since, Origo is much too curious about these two very feelings, everything ends up like this. All this while, he was looking at the road, underneath, slipping backwards, slowly, below his converse-laden feet. But, the road, now, upon which he is standing, seems to be a lot different than all the others he has seen in life. At this moment, Origo can think of only one thing: 18 years isn't enough to let him know all the roads in the universe. This time, he looked up. The straightening of his head made his hood slid backwards. Everything suddenly seems so bizarre. Even the roadlights. Now the roadlights aren't just glowing upon one single never-would-end road. Now, Origo has choices. Somebody once said, we always have a choice. And, the fun part is, Origo has 3! Yes. The road which seemed different, now seems rather radical. It's a square. The center of a cross. The heart, to which four roads have net. Okay, so now Origo has a dilemma. Perhaps, a trilemma! He stopped for a while and looked all around. Every corner seems to say a different story. But, Origo cares for only one. Rumor has it, at this point of tonight's night stroll, this point is to come, where Origo must make a choice and proceed upon a road, at the end of which a new beginning is waiting to start. Origo looked on his right. This very road, however, has less roadlights. There can be two things: either this road is just a yard long, or the other end lies somewhere which can never be known. The other two declared that they have a dead end. So, it is believed, the road on Origo's right is the right road to ride. Let’s walk along to see, how far along this can take.

      Perhaps the guy, who planned this road, must've been a miser of some sort. Surely there're less roadlights, mainly because they're placed comparatively far from each other. Something about the roadlight seems annoying. Origo examined, rather closely. He is still walking along the midrib, though. The roadlights are bright, all glowing like they should. But, they're not showing any path to walk upon. Instead, they're just there. Standing, selfishly, maybe trying to narrate an epic, that is solely of their own. A few lines through which only a warm chill can be felt. But Origo is not interested. He has to walk, until it actually ends. Origo will remember tonight, for it's the beginning of forever. Meanwhile, the roads have grown a bit old here. It seems to crack and shriek under his feet. Something, somewhere, told him to look up-and-ahead. All has changed. A rusty-wrought-iron gate, the intrinsic designs - an explicit way to describe something that lies on the other side of it. Origo pushed it open. Now that’s an old gate. It might fall apart any moment. Sadly, it didn't. Anyways, Origo is proceeding in the direction of a small chapel. It’s all dark around here. But, this darkness has a shine of its own, which is making everything look surreal, and visible, yet things feel lesser real with every step. Origo stopped at the door of the chapel. It's open. But seemingly closed. Something, or someone, is making some sort of sound from inside. It sounds pleasant. Origo suddenly feels a shivering calmth, starting from somewhere near his tailbone, and then spreading all through his body. Even his dark cold hair seems to wave in this windless night. Origo found something appealing, which lies inside the chapel, behind these doors. So, now he is entering, to witness what his eyes have been waiting for, since eternity. The air smells like ancient rose-oil lit lamps. The innate is, in fact, lit by, perhaps a thousand lamps. Each, glowing shamelessly below this nave, which is invisible now, and the roadlights seem to resemble them. With each step, a new, unknown, feeling started to grasp him. He looked around. There is nothing else, but lamps, some of which has given their way, for the darkness around to swallow them whole. However, everything is giving Origo, a quasitetrahedral feeling. Overshading all this, something here is amiss. That sound. Origo is surely seeking for it. It is coming from somewhere near the altar. He is moving closer. Yes, that’s it. There he is, sitting beside his masterpiece, the grail of Origo's journey. The harpist. And the harp. That goddamn magnificent harp. It might date back to the Pharaohs. The Pharaohs are amazing, though. Among all the sayings, Origo once also heard this rumor, that the harpist used to be a Pharaoh. Origo doesn't mind meeting a Pharaoh. The more closer he is getting, the more obsolete things feel, as nothing seems new. Many others have been to this place, before. Everyone seeks for the harpist. Origo is thinking, if he could, somehow, get to know the harpist's name. The tune flooding all around him. Now, the lamps are more bright. The old feelings dethroned, at the rise of the new ones.

      The harpist didn't look up; Origo is standing very close to him. The harpist is still playing the harp, his age-laden fingers slithering lavishly from one string to another. The harpist has a beckonance in his sight. Maybe, he is not a Pharaoh. Then what is he? Origo forgot to think further and so he got lost amongst the concord of this golden harp. The rosiness, now seems to be less genuine. It is all in this harp, which is doing it all. The harpist isn't such a formal man. His gestures, his mystiqual stance, everything has created a benign world, where feelings seem less important. Origo needs to wait for the harpist to answer his questions. But till then, the question remains, how long will Origo have to wait for the harpist? Eternity; that’s a blasphemy. Nothing has ever been said about this. Origo doesn't know about all rumors. Perhaps, the beginning is about to start...