The Art of Loving Truly

Is like breathing in the intermingling scent of wet earth and rain,
On a wild and burning summer afternoon,
Or maybe so a lick of frozen yogurt by the sandy beach,
Or a boxful of brownies and macaroons.

The art of loving truly is perhaps a brush that does not paint,
if the hand that holds it knows not the colors of the world.
A poppy budding to bloom among many others,
The thousand gestures and flutters that come with such few words.

The art of loving truly digs deeper than the grave,
Beyond the bluest of eyes and warmest of smiles,
Beyond each raging foamy wave,
Apart from the world, apart from the mind.



Well, coincidentally beneath the boughs of the hairy tree,
I was waiting for its infamous sinister creak,
and so were you with your bag wrapped around your shoulders,
and a camera dangling by your neck;
And looking at you made me start thinking,
that we could have had met in a French boutique,
Or better yet in one of the dilapidated churches in Spain,
that are, I must say, much much older,
than the one closest to our tree.
We could have had met by a fountain in Venice,
or maybe in the buzzing streets of New York,
or perhaps, in a beach somewhere in the Pacific.
But, dear no, it had to be beneath this ancient tree,
for that was where we were supposed to be.

The Child Who Could Not See

The aesthetics of everything around us must not be seen by our eyes. Instead, the fervent and continuous beatings & musings of our hearts must be the judge of true purity and beauty.

Shifa Naseer

On the bench, in the park, I sat next to a child who was looking over the lake nearby. He was not wearing sunglasses and I was amazed that he was facing the sun without squinting his eyes. He had a water bottle in his hand on which there was a picture of “spongebob squarepants”. I smiled at him but he took no notice. I was exhausted from my run and was panting hard. At first I didnt think he noticed me, but then he passed his water bottle to me. I smiled at him gratefully and took a sip.

I handed him back his water bottle. I sat straight and looked forward like him. I couldnt help but squint my eyes from the sun. I looked at him and he seemed perfectly alright looking in the direction of the morning sun!

I was surprised. I asked him how he…

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The child in our bones.

Smile, young one, for there is nothing to frown about,

Your days are fresh and your nights warmer still.

Let the sun kiss your arms and cheeks into rubies,

And run into meadows to garner scars that rapidly heal.

Hold the fresh picked flowers between your fingers, love;
Look upon them as they turn crisp and brown.
You must know that none lives forever, love.
In grief, despair and sorrow you must not drown.

Trouble yourself with skipping rocks on the lake,
Or chasing the fireflies that glow by night.
Carry not the voice of the world upon your back,
and lose the your passions, your words and your delight.

A certain time comes when you shall search for such a ring,
That has to be eternal, strong and willing,
Remember always that pain comes with love, dear;
Trying and looking again you must not fear.

Count not the pennies and dimes in your pocket,
they will consume you in a struggle later on.
Instead, count the smiles you create everyday,
Treasure them, keep them before they are gone.

When the stars are not twinkling tonight, child,
And you reach for a hand that never was,
Pour a thousand tears and wails, child;
Then smile upon the morrow sun’s flaws.

To Hell’s keeper.

To the Hell keeper,

Whose fingers are black with soot and ash,

who carries the only light in Hell in his hand,

who carries no malice, no wrath-

To the Hell Keeper,
Who hears what the Divine had commanded,
Upon his weary head the cries of rotting souls resounded,
As do his, as do hers, as do mine.

To the Hell Keeper,
Who knows who I’ve been and what I am.
Hold my hands and blow them warmth.
And by your breath, be less as damned.

To the Hell Keeper,
Who closes the gates for  Man,
Who stokes none but the hope of all,
Those who are gone & to those who will fall.

To the Hell Keeper,
Whose drooping eyes pour forth his agony,
Of  revealing the flames of end,
The inferno beyond life, the eternal misery.

Grow flowers in your eyes, Keeper,
The beauty of Life you must behold,
Reach to the Heavens, Keeper,
And descry the world’s tale untold.