In poetry, in prose,
in the memories of your love,
with longing my beloved,
I have sent you many messages of flames and madness.
You don’t have to assert in writing every time you see my devotedness,
but if you don’t,
there is no way, I’ll know your joyousness.
You complaint, I have told the whole world that you will be the woman of my house,
I don’t mind you doing the same;
to your cousins, your friends, their lovers and people in your adjacent house.
For a long time you haven’t spoken to me,
seconds have passed, minutes too,
12 hours or more.
I used to love you, the way your veil loves you,
secretly, masking your face away from the world.
But today I love you, as that butterfly,
which sucks the sweetness from the flower,
flying from one window hole to another,
announcing ecstatically to everyone along the way.
I saw that friend of your’s that you keep talking about,
I told her about our love and she started walking on air.
I don’t know, why I love you so much,
or why I love, the way I love you.
That’s not important after all,
I love you this way, because I don’t know any other way to love.
Tell me, how can I write poetry
when your voice caresses my soul,
words it is no more.
This is not the end, beautiful friend,
this is not the end.
Of our enraptured talks, this is not the end,
of our listening and silence, this is not the end,
of all the sleepless nights, this is not the end,
bounded by constraints, this is not the end.
Lost in the obliviousness of pain,
desperately in search of answers and waiting for that summer rain.
Maybe, there will be no monument in our name,
but our souls will merge in the rainbow rain.
Of our dead phones, this is not the end,
of the stillness of the cold air, this is not the end.
This rose will never die, beautiful friend,
this is not the end, my only friend.
Look, the gates of the fortress garden are open to play.
Many dangling tyres to swing on.
Flocks of wild pigeons returning from the town.
Let the evening walkers sink in the dying sun,
for us, the song lies somewhere in the moon.
Over our enchanted dreams, over one thousand and one nights, we will talk about peacocks and their dances in the rain.
You want me to get married ma,
but the girl whose job-like profile, I saw in the newspaper wants me to be well settled.
that’s what the parents of the other girl, you showed in the classifieds of that rag also want me to be;
well settled, well qualified, well paid, good looking, never married, religious, but no beard.
the ad says the girl is also well settled, well qualified, well paid, good looking, never married, religious, and no beard.
by Shaik Zakeer Hussain
How can I be like you Ibn Battuta;
carefree wayfarer, returned home after travelling 73,000 miles?
how can I forget the agony and the trials,
and just follow my morbid desires?
The rain has stopped for us here today,
the winds no longer blow like it used to in your days,
honey and milk, seems to be a distant dream now;
our streets run carnage and gore.
Fire is thrown on us
like we are iron, to be extracted from the ore,
We are no Ibrahim from the yore,
so we have little chance, to be rescued from its rancour.
How can I leave the dead unburied;
their flesh to freeze in this cold?
what else do you want me to do with it anyway,
I don’t even know the prayers to be told.
by Shaik Zakeer Hussain
There is a customary semblance in all dictators: they are authoritarian, they command total submission, their rule is tyrannical and they have little, or worse, no concern for the pathetic conditions of their people. The population is starving, there is rampant unemployment, corruption at all levels of government. There is drudgery, there is pain, there is humiliation, there is everything in society, that makes a man lose his sanity.
Then there is a semblance in all revolutions: the people have endured all of the above for too long. They are now divided into two groups, the first one is the common man, he or she is the one, who hates the system the most, it is from this group that the dictator finds his prisoners; political dissidents, trade unionists, academics, poets, writers and militants. Lock them all up, torture their sympathizers, make their family and friends go disappear, fill their hearts with terror.
The second group is the associates of the dictator; they are his family, friends, the members of the regime, the police, the military, the bureaucracy, the secret police and all other partners in crime, let’s share a dime, low life scums on earth.
And then there is that sublime moment of mad outburst; the moment of freedom, the moment, when man thinks of nothing else but, his dignity, the shattering of glasses, the breaking of shackles, people pouring out on streets, their cries, beating of the chests, the slogans, the firing of volleys of tear gas.