Remnants(A half-remembered dream)

Drenched in sweat, In vain I try,

To repaint the majestic splendour,

Contumacious recollections creep and I,

This phantasmagoria, I render,

It meant to me, I know not what,

Maybe as much as my Muse's breath,

That clouds my biased looking-glass,

Into my subversive, inward, dimlit room,

Or a dusty, long-lost artifact, that

Avoids an avoidable corner, In class,

Avoids my gaze, In stealth,

Maybe a significant tear in gloom,

Or the Chrysanthemums in full bloom,

In a Japanese wedding-night,

Or on the grave of a valorous British knight!

'Ghalib', I had christened him,

He had fought with me till the very end,

Or I'd like to believe, the dim,

Grey eyes, The mast that had held me aloft,

And like the knight I'd like to pretend,

I was amidst the heavyset thickets, The soft,

Rustling of the verdant Peepul leaves,

Then the freezing Tundra, Merciless as ever,

Brought out in me my primal wants,

Amidst the shrieks of forgettable taunts,

Again, as my heart still believes,

New realms in her, I discovered!

Mere words for her, never would suffice,

What just a casual glimpse could be,

Fathom the depth, That moment precise,

Of the abyss, My passionate mind,

Invaders lame or third-eye blind,

Seized my momentary lapse, To flee,

But I fought, 'Ghalib' the victorious one,

With a gallop, My magnificent steed,

To decapitate the infidel, To make him bleed,

I believe I killed the wretched one!

A crack I saw, Like platonic shifts,

The Pangea, that once enraptured me,

Fragments I beheld, Now scattered in seas,

Confused as Frost with alternate paths,

Unlike him, indecisive, My wrath,

Rained down on my fictitious, bewildered self,

As I sought her peaks, My ever loyal fleets,

Scrambled up and down like little elves!

And now the vespertine zephyr it blows,

A salty sting my probable wounds,

A swansong or an anthem glares,

From the conches, As I bellow,

The words that now don't ring and sound,

Mere vignettes, Of a hazy dream,

And the eyes of my reflection stares,

At a blank, irrevocable thought-stream!

And as soon as it had begun,

In white flashes, It disappeared,

I remember footsteps, I still work the rhythm,

When I walk alone, Or sprint or run,

And the vessel I so diligently steered,

The vassals, And my lighter moments with them,

Sometimes I paint the majestic walls,

And let the dull drapery cover it all!

Now, read the last paragraph, and then begin from the beginning, a cyclical poem, written for the Creative Writing GC.

पंछी

आज़ाद पंछी!

ईर्ष्या से तुझे निगाहें भर देखता हूँ,

तेरी स्वच्छंद उड़ान,

मेरी अभिलाषा,

क्या मैं इसे कभी महसूस कर पाऊंगा?

हवाओं को ओढ़ते हुए बादलों की नरम छाँव में,

अपने मे ही राजा और रंक समाए,

धरती और आसमान मुलाहिज़ा कर,

क्या मैं अपनी शेष ज़िंदगी गुज़ार पाऊंगा?

डालियों से डालियों पर,

मुल्कों से मुल्कों में,

दिलों से दिलों तक,

क्या मैं ऐसे दृष्टिकोण के क़ाबिल कभी बन पाऊंगा?

अपने दर्मियान फ़ासलों के बावजूद,

इस आत्मा की गुज़ारिश सुनो,

अपनी उड़ान में लहराती उम्मीद से,

हमें निरंतर प्रेरित करते रहो,

उड़ते रहो!

I am.......

I am,

But a mere spectator,

Not omniscient, maybe not impartial,

I see at night, mounds of corpses,

Tendons in the beaks of scavenging vultures,

Who salvage from the wreck,

To keep themselves afloat,

'They're blameless',

My heart lub-dubs,

Survival is the ultimate goal,

And they'll perish soon,

To be eventually free,

Of all the sins of force of habit,

If I were the keeper of the keys,

Of the elusive golden gates,

I wouldn't ponder a moment to let them in,

But once again the mounds of corpses flash,

And leaves me to speculate and possibly punish,

But I am,

A mere minuscule mortal,

What right have I to mock the sky?

The fireworks that succeed a triumphant venture,

Possibly the lesser of the evils,

The devil's alternative, plausibly,

But how may I rest in peace at night?

When stabs at me pangs of guilt,

The unguarded mounds need someone,

Maybe a keeper,

Or probably a nurse to wipe off a lonely tear,

Concern on a now numbed, motionless cheek,

And now I see a couple parties in the horizon,

I think they're here to help me clean,

To wash to the sea the frothy mess,

Their guilt,

Oozes from the remnants of innocent souls,

Destitute bodies hand in hand,

But they prove me wrong,

A bewildered me,

I gape at the in situ crematorium,

A herd of necrophiliacs throw themselves,

Into the unassuming mounds,

The backdrop changed to a modern day colosseum,

In colourful vignettes,

Partly phantasmagoric,

The nation, the hailing spectators,

The placards and the vuvuzelas,

Out of the central Roman theme,

I float down to the still numb bodies in the mounds,

Even the parties emotionless in their motions,

Amazed again,

I grasp the real,

Mere glorified whores,

Mere attention seekers,

Shameful brutes to make me cringe,

I float in my nightmare to a nearby lake,

With the crimson not yet caressed its cheek,

I throw in flat, round pebbles that glide,

On the otherwise still surface,

Ducks and drakes,

The little game called,

I wake up confused but glad,

With a gash on the finger I cut on a pebble,

That left the pond slightly redder.