A Free Soul

Speak like the trees – voiceless,
Move like the wind – swiftness,
Think like this ancient crust of dust,
Collect rare beings whom you trust,
Listen like the stars – far away,
Love like the birds – a new day,
Become a young free soul and flow
Like this beautiful angelic doe,
Dance like the leaves – falling,
Stand like the mountains – rising,
Ever since you have lived this life,
Ever since you were the wildlife.

Howls and Roars

I was once a little boy who travelled
To different planets; each to tell their
Own ancient story about my purpose –
Not theirs, and strangely enough, only
Riddling clues evaporated into my ears,
The voice? Well, no specific position,
Only the vivid signs in the atmosphere,
And on the brightest month of the year,
And on the coldest night of the month,
And on the loneliest hour of the night,
Wolves started to appear amidst the
Misty snowfall of a woodland planet,
And I have lived on this planet patient
For it to tell me its story about me,
And even after years spending on it,
I have never heard anything except now:
The endless howls under the several
Moonlights – the volcanic planet did
Reveal the secret of the darting red
Eyes that would stop my heartbeat,
But I had to do something for them,
And their approach was slow and
Fixated centred entirely around me,
I couldn’t climb the trees or dig down
And hide below some earthly matter,
But I might be able to speak some
Sense into them, and so I told them
To go away and leave me alone,
I asked them what of me did they want,
Their reply was simply predatory,
And I knew that any second now
I would be devoured into little pieces
Beyond recognition, and so I shouted,
And I noticed the hesitation on the
Younger wolf, and so I roared at the
Top of my young lungs, and many
Stopped their deathly march, but
Since I was by myself that pause did
Not last forever, and so, I roared again
And again and again, but this time,
The planet roared its life with me.

The Secret Garden

This is a story about our encounter:
A secret bestowed upon a garden
By the keepers of a magical town,
Centred within Gaelic wilderness,
Frivolous birds briskly fly their wings
Into the flowers of a peaceful summer,
We become trees: young and wise,
Organic leaves delineating our soul,
Signs of nature pulling us here,
A nest for storytellers, a sanctuary so
Sacred till the last sip of a teapot,
Brewed within earthly volcanic
Waters to be consumed by many
Celestial souls of serene beings,
The story tells of an enigmatic
Inscription well-preserved within
Its silent walls and cushioned floors,
Within its dim lights and fragrant
Candles, within the cheerful friends
And the veiled whispering couples,
The story discloses to the passers-by
The will to dance a tribal ritual
Energised by the rare melodic aether,
Strings of a golden harp revealing
The vivid colours of this garden,
The story now flicks to a different
Chapter as the door cracks open
And the chimes of our steps reach
This realm’s magnificent keepers,
The same ones who forged this
Hideout for us to share something,
So, relax, take a sip, and enter the story.

Leaving Steampunk City

Hold the fort and wait for the cavalry, they said –
Pick our side and you will see victory, they said –
And there was a time when I believed their word,
Where I stood on castles fuming all coloured trees
To ground for trebuchets to fly us out of abyss,
But day after day we painted our great walls
With smog to block our breaths into darkness,
Gates were only opened to nature’s black debris,
Resisting was I to the temptation to leave all
Behind and hammer into similar enslavement
But on a different earth, a different whisper,
Somewhere where the greyness was never the
Symbol of life and all its essence, where our
Lost souls belonged to colours lifting us out of
Abyss without any sign of fumed destruction,
So, I followed my sailing eyes to an unknown
Horizon away from all kinds of hearts of men,
So, I let go of the fort and I picked my own side.

Read Between the Lines

A chronicler dwells in clear waters,
Just on the outskirts of a red post,
The prison, to which many others
Have escaped, is now left behind
To crumble before emerald trees,
Maps drawn to find this treasure,
But a compass might fail to work
Over here next to the nine paths,
The legend might just be a myth,
But to me, you only have to heed,
There is this man who disappeared
Behind the shadows of two sisters
That resided the crumbling prison,
So, avoid the chronicler that dwells
In clear waters for your own sake,
Find those who escaped and set
Them free from this awfully chaotic
World that is deemed to fall in the
Wrong hands like that of the sisters,
But love the rituals in the legend,
Sketched out of suns and moons,
Sending the star back to the post.

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.


Uncertain of the watered earth
(Dampened from a drowning sky)
To recollect the puzzled fragments
That grew on ancient branches,
Disintegrated by another soul
That was diseased out of society,
Something contagious is now
After my own insecure self,
Remedies with side effects,
And somehow I might be cured,
Perhaps, the notion of wild
Emotions will now disappear,
An erased historical movement,
Undermined to empower ignorance,
And certainly, I am now shaken
By this huge jigsaw puzzle with
Deliberately missing pieces,
Another movement to elude
A dimensionless emotion
Into many hopeful hugs and
Slightly less skewed kisses,
Buildings demolished for their
Outdated archaeological
Blueprints covered in dust,
But now, a third movement
Attempts to recover missing shards,
And renovate the soul into society,
Surely, this delusional phase is
Just a selfish juvenile uproar,
A system to infinitely drive
The soul into many dead-ends,
The cruelty of this life’s maze,
Constellations have begun to
Change or even disappear,
Severing the bond this soul
Once had with its own tree,
Dismissing all forms of guidance
To follow a narrow passage,
Just enough for few pulses
Of sunlight and moonlight,
And now, this quivering soul is
Branched into the watered earth,
Drowned towards uncertainty.