The Day The Words Weeped...

The wounds that last forever are not the ones caused by physical harm but by words uttered by a loved one.

Must remember henceforth to shut up when angry. 

Twenty Two...

Awww, what a cute song :)



Dil ke jo bhi raaz thay khul rahe hain, what a feeling
Neendon mein jo khwab thay jag rahe hain, what a feeling
Dil ki raahein, dikh rahi hai
Taare jo saare bane hai zameen
Jo bhi tha maanga, mil gaya hai
Jab se tujhpe kiya hai yakeen
Tujhko jab se maanga hai, haathon ko jo thaama hai
Baaton hi baaton mein yeh hua
Baby when you talk to me, manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me, saadi rail gaddi chali chali

Taare sab hai ghul gaye roshni mein, what a feeling
Sarae gum badal gaye hai khushi mein, what a feeling
Khoye thay hum toh, khud hi humse
Ik hi tumse mile hai yahin
Saare hi lamhe, gire thay pal se
Dekho na kal se mile hai yahin
Tujhko jab se maanga hai, haathon ko jo thaama hai
Baaton hi baaton mein yeh hua
Baby when you talk to me, manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me, saadi rail gaddi chali chali

Tum yeh maano ya na maano dekho bekhabar tum thay
Meri manzilon ke raaste hi tum mein hi gum thay
Dil ka kaise mile pata
Jab tum hi thay laapata
Ab humse toh na chhupa jo raaz hai
You'll be maybe
Baby when you talk to me (when you talk to me), manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me (when you walk with me), saadi rail gaddi chali chali
Baby when you talk to me (when you talk to me), manzil mili gali gali
Baby when you walk with me (when you walk with me), saadi rail gaddi chali chali

A Pink Rose Bud...

I hope when we become parents, I hope we don't forget that we don't own our kids. We might have given them birth and raised them, but I hope we don't make the same mistake our parents did of deciding their life and dreams for them. I hope the men realise the difference between being the head of the house and a tyrant when they become fathers. I hope they remember that there is no place for ego in a family. I hope the mothers remember to speak up for what's right, even if it means going against the husband. I hope we believe in our kids dreams, and let them have their wings. I hope we don't clip their wings saying we know better. I hope we remember to let them make their own mistakes. And still accept them when they come home defeated and hurt from the battles.

I hope we don't expect our kids to repay with their dreams for the life we gave them. 

*****

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

- Khalil Gibran

Black Gold...

Reference to Chaco War. 

Walking Around...

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,

insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.

I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,

alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

- Pablo Neruda

The Ugly Truth...

Don't give me a choice

Give me a reason to stay

'Cause I'll make the same mistake, again.

The Red In My Hair...

The day we became men and women, we locked the kid inside us and hid the key from us, we threw away our innocence and we covered wonder with a seriousness that we believed was befitting of age. We didn't see anymore, we looked, for what we already knew. We took aid of our shiny new glasses, with diamonds and titanium, but we still missed the truth. We heard like fast-dry programmed in our washing machines. We laughed like we cut our meat. The skies didn't turn bluer or the flower rosier when they heard us laugh, they looked at us with confusion and with fear. We painted our faces black and red so we could slip in the dark and leave by the back door, we forgot to remove the paint. We talked in hushed voices, one spoon sugar, one tablespoon salt, a pinch of spice, a sprinkling of rosemary, we followed the recipe, we forgot what it meant to experiment. And we kissed like rituals, we forgot a kiss was meant to be a journey to discovering hidden wonders...we instead took the fastest train and got down at our station, a ticket in our hand and a map for the next one.Our love prosaic and our spirits like the cocktails they serve on a Thursday night, watered down and cheap. Our friendships were like transactions, and oh yes, we kept a separate drawer for the receipts, we were such good accountants. We dreamt like the wallpapers on our walls and we lived our lives like the algorithms we wrote. And the one thing that grew in our life were our fears, like hound dogs they never lost the sight of us. Chase, catch and kill the game.

The day we became men and women we handed the reins of our lives to society and we erased the memory of the time when we lived, truly, for ourselves. We became what we always feared and when someone asked us, we said with a shrug, "Oh it's not so bad after all".