The countenance escorting her presence befalls as a thousand questions showering as meteorites, on my awed face.

I have always known, for what now only seems centuries, that God is with me. In this moment though, my doubts are enhanced and my fears of existence, a little reinforced.

‘What is this state? What are these sounds enveloped in it?’, I find myself lost in this transfix of a controversy once again: Hadn’t I been a fool, yet again, to presume (without much evidence) that I was perhaps rid of the recurrences of this condition!..?

It all comes from Allah, I must not forget that either. This ‘condition’ I must own as my own; there is no attempting to escape the inevitable: else there is then further madness.

There is already enough madness here…not insanity, but pure madness, the good one. It’s the sort of ‘good’ that can occasionally turn bad too, though not without some useful consequences often then.


‘I know you are sad, may I help you?’ I ask. He doesn’t reply. I gaze at the innocent child masked in that cold face, from behind those dark-circled eyes. It is not all that hopeless, there is still a flicker, a shine there. He turns away that mask of a face, wants to hide the shine again.

He closes his eyes. I return to the realization I have to go, I have work to do. We are fortunate we met on the street and not elsewhere; or you wouldn’t have been able to shut your eyes so much at will, I couldn’t have walked away with so much ease.



Written: 09-09-2016.

Litany of the Little

You are baby’s breath,
Burning incense, a rising flame.
You are me, and I have no name..!

You are the might
Of all seven oceans, all together,
All at once:
Salt-water, that drowns some,
But keeps many more alive.

You may not be the rush
In my crazed adrenalin,
Nor the laughter of a drunken night.
You are not possession, the lust thereof.
You are not flesh, the saline taste of it.
Or perfume that scents a lover’s hug.
Nor are you the moisture of skin,
Or reflections in her iris
Witnessed by my naked eye.

I may be you,
Perhaps a relic of your past;
Else, a glimpse of what more you are.
I might have been the valley
As she beholds Nature’s offerings;
Nurtures, unbiased as a Mother,
All travelers that come her way.

I may be vision, I may be a flower.
I may be the time-keeper,
Giving up my dearest hour.
But, I am no baby’s breath,
I am not the Sea.
No able giver of life…
And though, I am a bit of you,
You are all; I’m nothing, and only me!