The Dark chest of A happy man
Rehan
The first question must be why man, why not a female being the one does all bad deeds and we
learn about her life, but what if I say a bird is more likely to fly when compared to a cat. I didn’t
mean to hurt the feminine by projecting the hurt as different as a whole bunch of a new category to
start with. I will say that the female has a whole different world of pain and only in the realm of love
they come to see and unify with the known common ground of emotions that we know. A world
bringing o the patriarchy.
The blood spilling out of his neck like it was gushing out from some tube well in the Punjab. But here
they were soiling the sand red and slowly slowly the old blood was getting as hot chocolate which
was framing herself into hard ones. The vein that let go his life was not there, it was just a biological
way of death at witness. the vein that hold him throughout his life wasn’t nowhere to be found, it
was all gone but the vein of life was missing, the cut only opened the blood and the drain of the
tissue was all that was happening.
If I give you a more vivid picture to imagine then you must keep the eyes level to mine and then we
shall both see a mud house up in the pines where the fragrance of freshness and dew sings, where
the Tyndall effect you learn at school is omnipresent in the sunny days, where the folks have
remained for years on the hills and ages underneath.
I am talking about that mud house that went khaki to maroon, I am wrong if I say maroon exactly, it
actually went through phases just like the moon goes through but here was the difference, the
moon resurrects but this house shall not,
The red blood the hot blood the blood that is alive which when falls on the grains of mud wall which
is white because of the clayey white mud smothered over her walls first seeps the red-hot blood just
the way a child soils the clothes of his parents just the same way but here the earth was seeping out
life, and when she is satisfied the hot blood no longer feels hot and gets cold and coagulated it
remains there not to be felt anymore, similar to some of the oaks.
1/2/22
Si is the first letter that I write today, so was what I intended. Sometimes it happens that we say
what wed do not intend to say but there happens a glitch and we say what we don’t had to say. The
problem with thoughts and actions is that they both goes with the resolve one has, I see life as a
place where dissolving faces of loved one’s flow with bubbles rising and bumbling and blasting into
light breeze above, that brook where you are a boat between two rock falls and you know it. Your
body will absorb all the water inside and you will be like a weak thread that breaks and your parts
will get away from you and they will fight to stay together but the water will not forgive you it will
take away because it flows, because the flow is time, it is the time. Time the keeper. Beauty will
decay and die so shall all traits except the moment in those times.
Where The oaks lift their skirts and show their white legs
When the breeze comes up from the brooks below
Where wild roses perfume and clouds come down and rest
Where the willow tree is by the brook side
Where an old women lives
Where a lone chinar waits
Waits for the one who swings by his arms
Where sheep sings for goats that got sacrificed
Where pain and joy married same person
So, they fight, fight for the attention of husband
Where a pear tree hangs into a gorge
Where all his fruit rots
Where there is mosque
Where nights are star filled and prayers are attended with moths
Where I walk a shallow trail less traveled
Where I see play when I can!
End of this poem
I write as I am a blind man but I have walked the earth before in an old life. Where I saw butterflies
turning butterflies from caterpillars where I saw a rain descending on a mountain from far above the
clouds where I tasted the cold wintry rain and flowers of rain with embraces of love, where there
was a moment to live by and die.