Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
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Bhaskar Thakuria Bhaskar Thakuria
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soul mates

The night comes and goes
With an irrevocable sense of the absolute
But this night is far from being gone, possessed
With an undying flame-luminous and resolute.

A flame burns inside, exhorting me
And myself in its quest for spiritual communion.
While I, in my eternal solitude wonder at the
Flickering flame hanging near the door in these silent minions.

But the shadow still reigns supreme as, with me
On and off through these dark and starry nights of summer
Where the leaves rustle chirpily and the wind stills darkness,
The shadow hungers for infinitude as it grows denser,

And ranges from door to door, from top to bottom
Of the soundless quarters of my home; it embraces
The secret corners and crevices of these quarters
As it distills its essence into solid and misshapen masses.

And this night is far from being over-for me in my halting dreams
As I shift the indefinite line between reality
And oblivion; and then linger suddenly in one irresolute
Step, as I stare wide awake into darkness and infinity.

And now, as in those long gone yesterdays, there is this
Fleeting glimpse, a sense of the past, where
I, in the puerile fancies of bygone years, gathered repose
Sheltering myself at the crossroads that led to nowhere.

Time does not stand witness to these eternal misconceptions
As these are in a sense devious and precipitant;
And so much ingrained in the eternal fallacies of men,
Of the volatility of youth, gone haywire and recalcitrant.

So now I sit back and reflect as time,
With its considerable wings casts a fleeting reminder
As it breezes past and leaves me disconsolate and repentant.
For I now reflect on my past, laid low and bare in all its entrails and remainders.

These days in the month of May
The sun greets the earth in all the glory
Of its radiant wings, and seeks for fulfillment
And secret consummation as it unfolds the story

Of the day when mother Earth was laid bare,
Parched and dry under the cruel bars of sunlight,
Of the earth raped and bereft of nectar and manna;
When its son acted as men, and told tales under lamplight;

Of a time whose dreamy reminisces acted as the balm
That sought to heal those insults of old
Which they were wont to collect with a sense of deep longing and gloom
Feeling, as they did, the moment when their fates were told.

And now they are, in a sense, prejudiced against their own wills
That rankled with scorn and ranted with malice at
Those decisive moments when their fate intervened
Which they continued to lament-a vice-ridden soul that chose to grate.

I see these miseries and misfortunes of my soil and its sons
And reflect on the agonies of failed endeavours, of the
Mischances that one comes across at the hands of fate.
'Who is to blame for this longing for the past,me

or them?' Why do I always think that things
Could have been different-for myself alone or
Is it the precipitant angst that arises from our failure
To incorporate our thoughts in to the medium of our daily lore?'

I search for the answers as I take care of my daily rations;
An endeavour rises and takes fruit inside me
To discard this angst-ridden soul and turn over a new leaf.
But an inner voice within me craves for a lost time that I see

Hidden away in the deep crevices of my memory.
And forever they arise like a reel-film transcribing emotion and fact
While presenting before me the life that could have been
And suffering me to endure this lost life of longing-a life without tact.

Dawn breaks through these bars that imprison me
For I see their rusted and mutilated surface
Through the faint glimmer of sunlight that escapes, peeking
And shimmering slowly dispelling these clouds of gloom in their race

To seek out a new repose, their new field of diversion
While I, somnolent and dismal, in the virgin air of dawn
Cast aside my nightly visions and engulf myself in the
Subtleties of the infant day in all its colours-a pallid shroud or a printed gown?

There is this unique quietitude which I treasure so much,
An air of quietitude and repose-which stills my disturbed mind
In so dire need of a tranquil state, perturbed
With queries-the answers to which I cannot find.

Some would indeed consider my attitudes ridiculous,
Preoccupied as I was with these voiceless questions;
No name whatsoever could ever be found
To this senseless ranting that signified my persecutions.

I, indeed, am but a blot on the face of this planet
To have queried the significance of its beauty.
For what was obvious and superficial in the hymn
Sung in its praise was to me the dubious aura of dark sophistry.

Grief and lament that grips my being like a vice
Are but bthe dismal self-expressions of myself wallowing
In the marsh-pits of self pity-the raging of
A dissatisfied being bending and willowing

To the sublime charms of a noonday stampede
Where no outlet exists for the body and the soul,
And one vainly struggles with his scarred remains
To eke out a helpless cry of a dying soul caught by a ghoul.

I live in the midst of these colours-gloomy and bright
Which plays upon my fancy morning, evening and night;
Now I see these dewdrops clinging to my windowpane seeing
At once the games that my conscience plays.

Some day I would rather say like an imbecile
That my life is now what it should not have been-so lean and fragile.
While on others I would suffice it to state the eternal truth
That I would lead my life in holiness and fight it to the teeth. 1 comment

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