Sleep,
Thou destiny,
And Mine
are not the same,
We shall not meet,
Till my dying day
Till my last hour,
After which
We shall be united,
We shall be fused,
Into one another,
And,
It is then that
I shall sleep
Forever
7/04/05
Monday, June 12, 2006
Friday, June 09, 2006
Voices
Voices
The voices do not cease,
Yet,
The faces remain unseen.
The voices are stifled,
But,
No throats seen strangled,
The voices are loud,
Yet,
No lips seen whispering even a sound,
The voices of strangers,
Who,
I’m unable to see,
But,
Their words do not cease!
These voices refuse to go,
The voices that shout for help,
The voices screaming in horror,
The voices begging for mercy,
From the terror!
These are,
The voices that remained unheard off,
When those children die.
The voices that could not be cut-off,
When those men were burnt alive.
The voices that could not be taped,
When those girls were molested and raped,
The voices of the farmers,
When their crops died,
The voices of the factory workers,
Working day and night,
The voices of those children,
Whose mother was raped before their eyes,
The voices of the Dead,
With a different story to tell,
Then,
When they were alive,
The voices of the prostitutes,
Lying in bed screaming within,
‘Leave me now, leave me! For I am already dead!’
The voices of millions,
Praying for peace and hope,
Along with,
The voices of school children,
Who became addicts,
Begging and pleading for some dope!
The voices of those,
Slaughtered in Cambodia and Vietnam,
The voices of those,
They bombed in Afghanistan,
The voices of those,
They butchered while making India and Pakistan,
The voices of those,
They erased from Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
The voices of those Jews,
Gassed to death by the Nazi’s,
The voices of those,
They kill daily in Iraq,
The voices of those,
Hacked to death in Bombay and Gujarat!
These are voices of people,
I don’t even know!
These are voices of strangers,
I don’t wish to hear!
For,
These are those voices I fear!
These are voices,
Calling out in pain,
These are voices,
That now have no remains!
Voices without a face or a name.
24/09/04 2:20am
© Noor Enayat August 2004
The voices do not cease,
Yet,
The faces remain unseen.
The voices are stifled,
But,
No throats seen strangled,
The voices are loud,
Yet,
No lips seen whispering even a sound,
The voices of strangers,
Who,
I’m unable to see,
But,
Their words do not cease!
These voices refuse to go,
The voices that shout for help,
The voices screaming in horror,
The voices begging for mercy,
From the terror!
These are,
The voices that remained unheard off,
When those children die.
The voices that could not be cut-off,
When those men were burnt alive.
The voices that could not be taped,
When those girls were molested and raped,
The voices of the farmers,
When their crops died,
The voices of the factory workers,
Working day and night,
The voices of those children,
Whose mother was raped before their eyes,
The voices of the Dead,
With a different story to tell,
Then,
When they were alive,
The voices of the prostitutes,
Lying in bed screaming within,
‘Leave me now, leave me! For I am already dead!’
The voices of millions,
Praying for peace and hope,
Along with,
The voices of school children,
Who became addicts,
Begging and pleading for some dope!
The voices of those,
Slaughtered in Cambodia and Vietnam,
The voices of those,
They bombed in Afghanistan,
The voices of those,
They butchered while making India and Pakistan,
The voices of those,
They erased from Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
The voices of those Jews,
Gassed to death by the Nazi’s,
The voices of those,
They kill daily in Iraq,
The voices of those,
Hacked to death in Bombay and Gujarat!
These are voices of people,
I don’t even know!
These are voices of strangers,
I don’t wish to hear!
For,
These are those voices I fear!
These are voices,
Calling out in pain,
These are voices,
That now have no remains!
Voices without a face or a name.
24/09/04 2:20am
© Noor Enayat August 2004
The Cursed Night of Twenty-eight of February
On that cursed night of twenty-eight of February
I went back home, proud of my feat,
But, not before boasting to all my fellow Hindu’s
They all agreed,
That indeed I had done a great deed!
After all,
I had killed so many of them,
After all,
I had fought for Rama,
My Lord, My God!
I told my son with a smile,
Grinning I thought I was right!
I told him about how I castrated and killed
Those swine’s,
I boasted about how I had rendered those
‘Allah’ preaching women sterile for life,
I spoke about all the young girls I had
Striped,
I even spoke about, how I had raped
The carpenter Mohammad’s daughter, Fatima?
I boasted about all my wrongful deeds,
After all,
I expected my son Rama
To be equally pleased,
I expected my son Rama
To be proud of me!
But,
All I saw was anger and pain.
All I could see were tears in his eyes.
All I could hear was hatred for me in his voice!
I got angry and walked away outside.
How time ran by I never realised.
When I came back, my eyes met such a gruesome sight,
Try as hard as I might,
That sight is still in my mind!
Rehman the potter and his son Ali,
Were raping my daughter Lakshmi.
Lying with her stomach cut open, never
To bear a child, made sterile for life,
Lay dead Parvati my poor wife.
Next to the door,
Lay dead on the cold floor, Rama,
My son castrated and dead.
Around him were his two sons,
Vishnu and Brahma.
And,
Their mother Sita was no where in sight.
She was no where to be found, except
In the pieces of flesh and the organs,
Scattered on the ground.
Anger took over me, and I shouted:
‘Hey Rama, Jai Bajrang Bali’!
And,
With a sword I butchered
The eighteen year old Ali!
The father fled and Rama bled,
While I butchered the young Ali!
The floor, the furniture, the curtains,
Even the Bed,
All soaked in Blood,
All dyed in the colour Red!
A pain seared through my heart.
Red became the colour of the Rain!
Red became the colour of my
Heartache and Pain!
Red became the colour of the Sea.
Red became the colour entrenched on,
Young Brahma’s and Vishnu’s memories!
Red became the colour I hated to see!
My family lay dead in front of me.
Bodies drenched in blood,
Broken bones, shattered minds, cut open skin,
And,
I was left all alone!
All I was left with,
Were four dead bodies to burn on a pyre,
All I was left with,
Was to set on fire the people I loved,
All I was left with,
Were two orphaned grandsons
Who hated me for I had killed their family!
Suddenly a thought came to me,
All this for the God in who I believed,
All this for Rama, my lord,
My lord who let me down at,
The very hour of my need.
Those killed were,
The people who believed in me,
They were none other,
Than my very own family!
I am Shiva,
The protector of my family,
Out to destroy anybody and everybody!
I lost,
All that I ever cared for,
I lost,
All that ever mattered to me.
And,
I sit here cursing my great Lord,
I sit here asking Him,
‘Why did You do this to me?’
After all,
Rama cant you see?
I killed all those people,
Rama only for thee!
All on that cursed night of twenty-eight of February!
16/08/02 1.30am
© Noor Enayat August 2002
I went back home, proud of my feat,
But, not before boasting to all my fellow Hindu’s
They all agreed,
That indeed I had done a great deed!
After all,
I had killed so many of them,
After all,
I had fought for Rama,
My Lord, My God!
I told my son with a smile,
Grinning I thought I was right!
I told him about how I castrated and killed
Those swine’s,
I boasted about how I had rendered those
‘Allah’ preaching women sterile for life,
I spoke about all the young girls I had
Striped,
I even spoke about, how I had raped
The carpenter Mohammad’s daughter, Fatima?
I boasted about all my wrongful deeds,
After all,
I expected my son Rama
To be equally pleased,
I expected my son Rama
To be proud of me!
But,
All I saw was anger and pain.
All I could see were tears in his eyes.
All I could hear was hatred for me in his voice!
I got angry and walked away outside.
How time ran by I never realised.
When I came back, my eyes met such a gruesome sight,
Try as hard as I might,
That sight is still in my mind!
Rehman the potter and his son Ali,
Were raping my daughter Lakshmi.
Lying with her stomach cut open, never
To bear a child, made sterile for life,
Lay dead Parvati my poor wife.
Next to the door,
Lay dead on the cold floor, Rama,
My son castrated and dead.
Around him were his two sons,
Vishnu and Brahma.
And,
Their mother Sita was no where in sight.
She was no where to be found, except
In the pieces of flesh and the organs,
Scattered on the ground.
Anger took over me, and I shouted:
‘Hey Rama, Jai Bajrang Bali’!
And,
With a sword I butchered
The eighteen year old Ali!
The father fled and Rama bled,
While I butchered the young Ali!
The floor, the furniture, the curtains,
Even the Bed,
All soaked in Blood,
All dyed in the colour Red!
A pain seared through my heart.
Red became the colour of the Rain!
Red became the colour of my
Heartache and Pain!
Red became the colour of the Sea.
Red became the colour entrenched on,
Young Brahma’s and Vishnu’s memories!
Red became the colour I hated to see!
My family lay dead in front of me.
Bodies drenched in blood,
Broken bones, shattered minds, cut open skin,
And,
I was left all alone!
All I was left with,
Were four dead bodies to burn on a pyre,
All I was left with,
Was to set on fire the people I loved,
All I was left with,
Were two orphaned grandsons
Who hated me for I had killed their family!
Suddenly a thought came to me,
All this for the God in who I believed,
All this for Rama, my lord,
My lord who let me down at,
The very hour of my need.
Those killed were,
The people who believed in me,
They were none other,
Than my very own family!
I am Shiva,
The protector of my family,
Out to destroy anybody and everybody!
I lost,
All that I ever cared for,
I lost,
All that ever mattered to me.
And,
I sit here cursing my great Lord,
I sit here asking Him,
‘Why did You do this to me?’
After all,
Rama cant you see?
I killed all those people,
Rama only for thee!
All on that cursed night of twenty-eight of February!
16/08/02 1.30am
© Noor Enayat August 2002
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