Turtles of the Moon

I ought to have maintained my anonymity until the denouement, for it is there that our prospects would have thrived most auspiciously upon the uncharted horizon of the unknown.

The mere possibility of your transformation into the conjured metabolism of pataphysical existence weighed heavily upon my heart and mind as never before. I unwittingly ensnared myself in the role of a semi-demi doppelganger of Ulysses, thus sowing the seeds of my life's sabotage.

I would occasionally catch fleeting glimpses of grace in the glimmer of a wondrous, age-old ruin of impeccable provenance. Through the enchantment of that ancient relic, I sustained the illusion of your presence with a kind of marvelous grace.

Yet, as I struggled to regain my aesthetic maneuverability, I found myself compelled to make a sacrificial offering of your memory upon the altar of the immutable cosmological constants.

I carry you with me to my tomb, and perhaps even beyond, for you persist within me, omnipresent in every fractional unit of time. I remain ensnared in the inexorable gravity of your memory, as time itself begins to erode and lose its recollection of its own course.

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An Elegy on a Night Party II

They sing the funeral song on the death of their Day, “Day is dead, let's celebrate the birth of the Night from vivacity to ecstasy and finally a fall from the seventh heaven unto the abyss of dreams and lust.” Having nothing to do in the nights of my ‘usual routine’, I had my same chair on the same corner, a platform above the dance floor of the Seventh Heaven party club at the Down Town. Everything in me tends to go on to become something else. The pervasive aesthetics of life and the disposals of proposals from the mighty eyes of Almighty, I placed myself on the corner for no reason. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. She holds spring against her breast and stares at me with sad eyes as if I’m a son of all other seasons other than spring. I don’t know who the she in my life is, but I keep watching and following her, th...

A Utopian Hallelujah

UPDATED : I saw her first on 26 January 2009 : This post was written on 18/03/2013: 06:42 PM : And i said what i wanted to say on Wednesday, May 22, 2013 6:18:00 AM : I met her in person on 16/8/14: 12:07 PM, the craziest thing I've ever done in my life! They say I am crazy 'cause I am in love with the crazy utopia. "Crazy Utopia" could be a person or her, obviously her, thoughts or even her existence. Each day i born new and likewise my love for her is new. I know her for the past five years and i am in love with her from that very point of time whence the "past five years" started. I've decided a myriads and myriads of times not to think of her ever and for never. But, I st...

At the hour of Last breath

(A poem by Rafeeque Ahammad. Translated by Anand ) Stay with me at the hour of my last breath, Amassing the burning veracities of life, My Fingers are dead, Let them get ease by caressing you. Last molecules of my breath may cart thy fragrance. My love, let thy face plunge In the eyes of mine, never to be opened. Ears, no longer be opened for sounds, Be sealed with thy mellifluousness. Mind, burning with thoughts and memoir, Be filled with thy evergreen memories. Kisses-made scars on my lips, Heal in the sweet chants of thy name. Reminiscences of journey, Unto thee my love, my feet tranquil. That’s enough for me, Buried under the earth, I resurrect- Newborn leaves of grass.

The Ballads of Gravity

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