Euphoria

A storyteller may peak into your proud eyes,
Each time a glimpse of glorious blissful day
Sends wild electric waves of joyous hope,
And he continues writing a historical novel,
Where you become his ecstatic beating heart,
Yet, he may forget the exact sequence of time,
Falter not, my dearest soul, for he is in a race,
So, go on and carry the Pearl into the heavens,
But await his call as he resurfaces in euphoria.

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Breathing a Life

Torn between two dimensions,
To live a lie amongst old lovers,
And treat newly sliced wounds,
Here, now, I can’t breathe right,
Neither can I walk well nor talk,
Nor can I bright my own eyesight,
And I am torn here for over there,
The lovely change of my new life,
Pages in my own history written
For more years; abruptly ended,
To live in my own: free, for me,
Selfish, undeniably, but at least
I will be able to breathe again.

My Dutch Friend

Historical dialogue between Earth and humans
Caused for banners to be put on our heavens,
The arms of humanity held one another for a
Chance to relive the beauty of nature’s purity,
And you are no different, O gorgeous friend,
Whether our time can be put in numerical
Forms or our memories can be inscribed on
The ancient pages of this Earth’s history,
Know that our encounter was definitely fated;
You see, the person who actually attracted
Me to that lovely group of friends was you,
Your energetic soul broadened its wings to
Soar over my delicate heart and fulfil the
Isolation that I felt at that moment; indeed,
I still remember, and I kept this to myself,
But not today, today I’ll tell you how rare
This friendship is; despite the short numerical
Time and the archived inscription of memories,
From your smiles and your amazing accent
To your sports and your social acceleration,
You made me look forward to the weekends,
In hope that I go back to the hostel and see
Each one of ye together for a wonderful time,
And ye were there and you were definitely there, too,
So I will delay my warm and loving thanks
Until I actually come to the Netherlands to see
You in person, and that day might be getting close.

Painting a Portrait

The two-dimensioned dilemma switched sides
To impersonate historical ageless Time where
At one end the black-and-white canvas would
Rotate into a pictorial film and scream aloud
Ancient symbolic letters for peace and justice.

Certainly, this era’s dogma about our truly old
Unpainted portraits revolved around ignoring
The essence of life dismissing the colossal law
Of the starry constellations among our shining
Sun, our glowing Moon, and our celestial souls.

Then the plot thickens after an innocent kid
Picks up brushes and a colour-filled palette
To openly colour its own portrait accidentally
Triggering the reversal movements of Time
As anti-clockwise severely destroys all dreams.

Albeit, the kid grows and learns to unlock
That treasure box and remove the partially
Painted canvas to tear it apart in hope that
One day Time will listen to this kid’s sorrows
Switching back to a one-dimensioned film.

Branches to Snap

Little have I known about the
Depravity of a soulless branch,
The one that hangs its own
Head out of an ancient tree,
Loosely swerving left and right,
Storytellers around the world
Gather for a memorial service,
Serviced by the intellectuals
Of my distorted modern era,
And surely, I have noticed the
Absence of many immaturely
Malicious minds of many men,
Eyeing my crooked branch to
Snap beyond conceivable repair,
And let the storms ride over
The hunchbacks of these
Desolate Times of history,
The results of which is a
Sacrificial ritual to fiercely
Burn the ashen hearts of
Our Sun and our Moon,
And to beget another form
Of amorphous tree void of
Any symbolic growing letters,
Yet, its mountainous branches
Will feed on other crooked
Soulless ones like mine,
A repetitive scene that
Little have I known to
Have ever existed before.

Change the System Not the Climate

Now, you just need to write
It down like you did before,
Something you are angry about,
Something about this world, or
Something you are passionate about,
Something that you want to protect –
No matter what,
Something you want to forever erase –
No matter what,
Write about the voiceless justice,
Or about the cries of rotten rats
That swarm the news headlines,
Billionaires owning what we hear,
What we see, and what we read,
The one percent guiding us,
The ninety-nine, into believing
The benefits of their mastery over
Our voluntary enslavement,
A charitable movement from us,
The ninety-nine, towards them,
The one percent, and indeed,
We allowed our men into war,
Maggots feeding on the sizzling
Dish to be served on golden
Plates and royal cutlery that
Become tomorrow’s headlines,
And we believe in their heroism,
We cheer for their deaths,
And we cheer for their return,
Returning wounded and voiceless,
And if any exposes the buried
Atrocities, then we accept
The system that puts them
On the menu for Today’s Special,
And we vote for the one percent,
For their beautifully carved thrones,
A burden that we choose to carry,
In our name they decree airstrikes
On hospitals, schools, and places
Of worship with cover stories to
Allude us into dancing our feet
Off the ground until we believe
Our transformation into celestial
Creatures; angels that protect
The world from corruption,
From demons in their own lands,
The lands of the ninety-nine,
Resources sucked out dry
As their thrones continue to
Expand in our sacred name,
And as we smoke our air
Into smithereens because
The system is meant to be
Treated that way, we await
A dance ritual from the one
Percent to alleviate our
Suffering, and what we,
The ninety-nine, see are them
False banners about the attempt
For climate change in the next
Few decades, a hopeful bait like
A carrot to a donkey’s journey,
And one day the carrot will
Burn and the donkey will
Run in reverse failing to
Notice the enclosing floods,
And indeed, in our sacred
Name the planet will survive,
The one percent in their jets
Will survive, but never us,
The ninety-nine of us
Will continue to roll a die
Into the inevitable homelessness,
An acceptable collateral damage
Discussed in their board meetings,
So, no need to find a solution
Since there is no problem
In this profit-driven system,
Devised by the one percent;
Meanwhile, we applaud their
Beautifully carved thrones as
They dust us out of history.