Sound VIII: We fools live in hopes and future!

We fools live in hopes and future!

But I know not what they’re,

And I also live in hopes!

It’s quite indefinable;

It’s a fusion of romance, lost love;

Loneliness and something

I know not.

I’m not lonely when I talk or sing loneliness,

I’m, when I feel the absence of my soul with me.

I need my soul, to be with me all the time, until

The end of my life.

Soul, the god of mine and the omnipotent of my ‘self’,

I want to fly high and drop myself down,

The vivacity of my soul takes me far high from the

Misery of the world,

Where everyone wears masks and paste a smile.

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ത്വം

നീ എന്‍റെ പ്രണയവും, ഉപാസനയുമാണ്. കാലം ആവര്‍ത്തിക്കപ്പെടും, ഞാനും നീയും അതില്‍ വീണ്ടും സംഭവിക്കും. ഭാവവും, ഭൂതവും അറിയപ്പെടാത്തവരായി നാം അതില്‍ ചേര്‍ക്കപ്പെടുകതന്നെ ചെയ്യും.

The Awkward Silence of the Enchanting Chasm

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.” Have I forgotten you? I don't like the way you faded into oblivion. Your glorious absence marveled at the absurdities of my life. Even the last remnants of your weird sight and smile create a whirlpool of the past and a hurricane of madness deep in the abyss of my conscience. Everywhere, in every form and matter, I see your dust. I teach myself to forget you and move ahead. The chaos of your story in mine is the absence of your existence in time-space. I weave each and every layer of your story so that I can tell my son, one day, how I survived on my own. I wonder whether it was your light or the shadow I painted, mostly in Prussian blue. They will hear the echoes of the deep enchanting chasm on my chest. I keep it echoing on my chest, so that I might tell my son on the shores of infinity that I had a story to tell.

Yellow Butterflies

She had just celebrated her hundredth birthday. A hundred years. The number fascinated me more than the life it contained. I looked at her and thought, What a blessing. Imagine living for a century. At that age, I still measured life in quantity. I had not yet learned that years accumulate differently from meaning. She rarely spoke. The world had slowly withdrawn from her senses. Food no longer delighted her. Conversations dissolved before reaching her. The pleasures that once animated her existence had become distant rumours from another life. She had possessed almost everything one could desire—a loving husband, a beautiful home, security, comfort, longevity. By every conventional measure, she had won. Yet old age is a peculiar thief. It does not steal all at once. It removes things patiently, one by one, until only a few fragments remain. For Anne, only three things survived the wreckage. Her husband. Her home. And the longing to return. Every day she asked the same questions. ...

The Ballads of Gravity

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