The Ballads of Gravity

Rage, rage, rage! Rage unto the roaring skies and rob the mighty waves of light; And sound the clash of Titans. Bring me them in the arc, I shall drink them to the less. Ah, my Angels and Devils,  Rage unto the eternal fire and waters, I shall blow the west wind and chariot unto the Eastern skies. I carry the unquenched fire and sound the trumpet of war. They devoured Prometheus's liver, Defiled Hypatia upon Caesareum's altar, Stripped by oyster shells, Bathed in the blood of Jesus, the Nazarene. I bury them. Yes, I bury them. I see the reversal of the time-  Those who walk on land shall return to their origin. The slave of the past, Bearer of forefathers' sins, Shed your blood, find solace in your shadows, As they demand the return of your sins.           Show me your hands           For, they drop blood            and wipe the stains of sins they passed on to you,          For,  They never say enough and enough.

Emerging from the lampshade, a nocturnal butterfly fluttered erratically, startled by the sudden overhead light. As I closed the book, the strains of a distant piano and violin drifted weakly from below. Lost in contemplating the butterfly's flight patterns, I found myself entranced. Kundera, sensing my bewilderment, remarked on the rhythm, the highs and lows of the musical strains below. He spoke of the interconnectedness of each note, emphasizing how even the pauses between them contributed to the symphony's beauty. I was drawn to the profound silence, where a symphony was meticulously orchestrated. Interrupting my reverie, she snatched the book from my chest, exclaiming, "What are you reading?" I could only respond with an "Ah!"

I witnessed the jasmines of spring wither into ashes, their once sweet perfume transformed into the stench of decay and clotted blood. The highlands and meadows exhaled smoke, becoming solemn memorials. I observed as they set sail for the shores of Damascus, into an uncertain tomorrow, only to drown in the salty waters of their dreams, memories, agonies, and hope. Houses, once temples of happiness and love, crumbled into piles of bricks, and the youth perished in vain, leaving grieving parents to bury their own offspring. What agony could be more profound than burying a child while still alive? In the enchantment of a past glory, time alone promises healing. Aleppo and Damascus, I weep for you. Once, I dreamt of you through the tales of great legends and Sufis. Aleppo, may your fields spring forth, and may the olives blossom anew. May the wind sweep away the echoes of agony and sorrow. Your tears shall purify the generations to come, and the moans shall resound like thunder. Your chi

Beneath the water's surface lies a profound mystery—a narrative concealed from the awareness of men, embodying archetypes that resonate with the human mind.  Once, like Narcissus, I would sit upon its shores, contemplating the limits of human potential and the intricacies of our origins. Each bow revealed a reflection transforming into butterflies upon the water. In the realms beyond human comprehension, where the chaos of origin defies understanding, butterflies in the water perform a dance, heralding the genesis of life and its journey from there to mine. Life, omnipresent and diverse, adapts and persists. It is said that even a butterfly's flap can birth a storm, and tears can unleash torrents. Ideas burgeon into change, thoughts manifest into reality.  Rage echoes within me—I am the wind, elusive and untraceable. I shall blow, summoning butterflies from the altar of her liquid realm. The friction of wind propels the momentum of water. The untamed spirit beneath the water wi

Dear Ruth, You have made me into a human; I was wild and untamed. It was then you evolved and occurred into mine. I have seen the greatness of life and the vivacity of soul. I have also sung the utopian hallelujahs to the stories we've never told. I always wonder the transformation I've gone through- you made me a poet.  You were everywhere in every form and matter; I couldn't see any other patterns other than yours. I saw my coming through the pains of thought and the flow of words. I made them into being and coloured with your life and image.  Ah, such a delicate soul!  I incubated you in time and space for eternity. It was in your absence I found the beauty of love for the first time in great magnitude. Quite an irony! Your absence filled everywhere and suffocated my anarchist self. And, you became a continuation of everything I loved.  I was trying to take off unto the magnificent gift of a writer. You brought my muse along with you. My soul rejoiced and overwhelmed o