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... 

A Painting On A Canvass

Like in a painting, but only sketched in blue, the sky is laid upon a seemingly dark canvass. The length of the canvass is actually a matter of debate. And also the shape. If it's limitless in length, it's not round in shape. If it's round in shape, it's not limitless in length. But the canvass is not always dark. When the sky is blue, it's very palpable to assume it to be dark. And when the sky is dark, the canvass must be colorless. The latter color is not very palpable. Because, it won't be too alien to consider that the dark sky does not portray any color at all. Instead, it can very well be that the dark sky is actually showing the canvass directly. In that case, the canvass must be a painting itself. So is the artist mad? Why would the artist paint upon an already painted canvass? And why does the canvass has to be a painting itself? A dark painting? Maybe the artist does not have an option. He has just got only one canvass to work on. Or...there might not be any artist at all. The canvass, might just be a canvass. And not at all a painting. It maybe that the canvass is like those things which changes its appearance, depending on the angle in which light falls on it. Yeah, that kinda solves the riddle. A canvass with two faces, both on the one side. Or...maybe there is indeed a canvass, upon which two paintings are done - one dark, one blue. And the paintings have been done in the same way as are those color-changing things. But then, what's the color of that canvass? Damn it. The riddle is not solved yet. More thought must be dipped into the pool of thinking. A lot more than as previously thought would be necessary.