Fallen Zest

Stars apprise when come the night,
When zest­ful wings stum­ble from their plight
Of the bravest chal­lenge and reck­less bout,
But held their fists in doubt.

Dreams were great, stars were close,
But their wings for­bid, their spir­its froze.
Now, heav­en was far, so far away,
And guilt marked his face betray.

Once truth­ful eyes pierced the haze,
And all real­i­ty bowed to his gaze;
Now tear-soaked truth lay in his sight,
But all he sees is the stum­ble and plight.

And to the angel’s gravest dis­may,
He was for­got­ten, and dead to the day.

Spirit (Urdu Rewrite)

The fol­low­ing poem is an Aesthetic Rewrite of an Urdu poet­ry Pighle Neelam Sa’ by Javed Akhtar, and not a direct trans­la­tion. Rewritten by Cyan Los. 


Like molten blue float moments past,
That deep blue as silence cast,
No earth to land, no sky to glance,
In lim­bo I flow, lost per­chance.
The rus­tle of leaves, the twigs and reeds
Have only to say that I’m here indeed.

Just me, my breath,
My beat­ing heart.

And I’m lost in depth uncer­tain,
Lost in soli­tude, alone, unbur­dened,
As I sense that pulse in my wrist,
I have come to believe that I exist.

What Do I Tell Thee?

Oh, what do I tell thee, mate? What do I tell thee?

I looked upon the fol­lies of the world
And there was a lot I had to say.
Then I saw the world know­ing them already,
And real­ized I needn’t have said it.

So what do I tell thee? What is it that I have to say?

The Seeker’s Ballad — Part 1

Greetings, lads and lass­es yon­der!
Audience I plead for a sto­ry to tell
Of a boy who chased a mistle­toe,
Though his heart unre­quit­ed fell.

Trickster, varmint, ras­cal was he,
His mis­chief, aloft with furtive smiles,
He stole cheer, then pen­nies thence,
And he stole par­don with devil’s wiles.
Kingdoms wise, though he was sly,
The Baron chained his relent­less spite,
But all her ser­mons went mis­prized
And the boy fled the daunt­ing plight.

He faked a cry, he spoke a lie,
His vision a bub­ble; He was the Sun.
But brazen he broke a vision box,
And he broke into a mor­tal run.
His moth­er apprised, she beck­oned
Her son, with cin­der unmet eyes,
And he wove his wily tales, indeed,
And fled her wrath with vivid lies.

But her dis­tress had in his heart
Sown the guilt; the guilt did grow.
It bloomed into a help­less wish
But the box for­ev­er lost its glow.
His eyes, ripened by rest­less tears,
Sought the gold­en-ager wise;
To his Grandpa he implored
To help soothe his mother’s cries.

Lie to her, and lie again,”
Said the wise of wrin­kled skin,
“If need be, lie a hun­dred more.
Spare your­self. Betray your kin.”
The boy, per­plexed, stood his ground;
Did Grandpa mock his cal­lous lark?
“Why must I lie, break her heart,
And for­sak­en her in the dark?”

Truth is to strength,” the ager spoke,
“Where courage, will and hon­or upraise.
Truth can mend, make things whole,
But truth has price no san­er pays.
It’s tren­chant rays cut open wounds,
Trampling secret ani­mosi­ties wild.
Even grown men cow­er from the truth;
You, my boy, are but a child.”

Enough!” The child cried and ran,
For truth of Truth he could not bear;
What caused his hope­less, fee­ble run?
Was his fam­i­ly not his own to care?
He was a child, and affec­tion he craved,
But the phan­tom bub­ble began to tear.
Why mustn’t he own to his mis­takes?
Why oth­ers endure his folly’s despair?

He braved into his mother’s sight,
Her eyes still vacant as her veers;
Unto her, he con­fessed his crimes,
And shut his eyes, and held his ears.
But fear­some whip had not yet come,
And he found him­self in warm embrace.
Her bro­ken heart was whole again,
And mer­cy shim­mered on bliss­ful grace.

The bub­ble burst, his vision cleared,
Unto hori­zons did illu­sions retreat.
Truth appeared as a blind­ing sun,
And pierced the umbra of deceit.
He basked in the air not his own,
His pal­try self beneath stars aglow.
What await­ed yon­der in lim­it­less dark?
Why were peo­ple afraid to know?

Yonder lay secret roads unpaved,
Where none the san­er dare to rake;
The path to truth was absolute,
The jour­ney was his alone to make.
Treacherous hills, ven­omous traps,
For all he braved the heat and frost,
Swayed by vines and melan­choly groves,
He chased uncer­tain­ty, and was lost.