The Eternal Battle between Sin and Guilt

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The old man pulled down my head

and whispered….

Listen, my son, and listen carefully,

for this is what it’s all about

And this is what you cannot,

and what you will never live without

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Sin is always hungry, an unstoppable parasite,

which feeds upon me, you, and all life

And guilt is the fire that cleanses the sin,

and cuts the darkness with a sharp knife

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Sin is the seed, sprayed forth from the loins,

of a terrible legion led by the angel Azazel

And guilt is the solace born in the heart,

and flowing from the eyes of the kind angel, Gabriel

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The struggle between the bright day,

and the all-encompassing dark night

And the war between sin and guilt,

is forever ongoing, the wrong, and the right

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This war is the bloodiest of all wars,

this scuffle is the deadliest of all scuffles

If the sin wins the game, all is lost,

but if guilt wins the cards, the life reshuffles

The Graveyard of Dead Dreams – A Mini Opera

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A lyrical mini-opera about loss, regret, and the quiet duty of nurturing hope in others.

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Legend tells us that away from the hustle and bustle of life and beyond the light of the setting sun, there is a forest — the emerald forest of imagination. Deep within this forest is the silver pool of glimmering desires.

Surrounding the pool are the grey boulders of regret, and on one of those boulders, sat an old man dressed in a tattered black robe. He held his head within his palms and was pulling on his grey hair in anguish.

‘Oh! I had a dream, and that dream just died

Oh! My poor dream has breathed her very last

‘But where has my poor dream vanished?’ He cried

You must know, you’re my Present and my Past’

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The Past was an old man dressed in moving shadows, while the Present was a young woman dressed in brilliantly colored flowers. They looked at each other with despair darkening their eyes and then addressed the mourner.

‘Your dream is dead as you say, you poor old man!

Death is the beast that is cruel to all and spares none

She has been taken to a graveyard as per the plan

We share your pain but are afraid, nothing can be done’

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The old man raised his head and looked at them in turn, dark sadness permeating his soul. Then, forcing his tears back, he asked:

‘And where is this graveyard of the dead dreams?

I have never heard of it; it’s probably just a story

But if real, I want to know how it really seems

I want to see my dead dream and lament her glory’

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The Past and Present thought for a moment and then spoke in harmony once again.

‘Far away from the dazzling dimensions of existence,

hidden in gloom, lies the graveyard of dead dreams

It borders a quiet lake and is visible from a distance,

and if you try hard, you can hear the silent screams

Filled with many graves, both large and small,

there are even some black urns filled with ashes

So many pretty flowers to be found even in the fall,

and also broken pieces, whatever this life trashes

Sitting at the broken gate, there is the old keeper,

his head is grey, and his eyes are filled with sorrow

All lonely and tired of his vigil against the grim reaper,

hope is something so far off, he can’t even borrow

‘What’s there to guard?’ he is often asked to elaborate

‘They are just broken dreams, need no looking after

They are all dead, you see, so what do you await?’

The people don’t try to hide their taunts and laughter

‘You are of course, right, and I do not blame you’

The old man says with shadows lining his brow

‘But, they are my sleeping children, it’s my view;

graves are their beds, where flowers need to grow’

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The old man heard all this with silent somberness and then left in search of the graveyard.

He walked and walked and then walked some more,

through the valleys filled with dark pain and loss

He looked and looked and then looked some more,

for the forgotten ruins covered in green moss

He walked and walked until he could walk no more,

his heart grew heavy, and his feet bled raw with each stride

He looked and looked until he could look no more,

his spirit lost its resolve, though he determinedly tried

And then one day, when he was about to quit his quest,

he at last reached the graveyard, that of the dead dreams

He just turned a corner and saw it from afar, due west,

the graveyard beside the silent lake, alive with screams

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He carefully approached the ancient custodian, who was quietly smoking an old pipe. On hearing the footsteps, the custodian raised his head and looked questioningly at the old man, his piercing blue eyes peering out from between the silver strands of hair.

‘What do you need, son? This is no place for the living

You look miserable, though, as if you are dead inside

What is that you seek? Or what is it that you bring?

You are all broken, though you hide it well with pride’

Hearing this, the old man fell at the Custodian’s feet.

‘Misery…yes! Broken ….Yes! But there is no pride

I am just here to see my dead dream one last time

My dream was my child; for her, I have always cried

I reared her with my blood; alas! She died in her prime’

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The Custodian was touched by the old man’s pleas, but he was helpless.

‘What you say wrenches my heart, I assure you, son

But I cannot do anything; your dream is gone forever

Yes, you can place flowers on the grave and mourn,

but you cannot caress its forehead and see it never’

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The old man gripped the Custodian’s ankles, and his tears fell in torrents.

‘Have mercy on me, I don’t want to abandon my child

She was my only possession under the lofty skies

Let me sit by her side amidst the flowers growing wild,

mourning the loss of her smile and the shine in her eyes’

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The Custodian thought for a moment and then, holding the shoulders, raised the old man to his feet.

‘Tell me, son, are all your dreams dead or just this one?

If you had just one dream, are the others’ dreams dead too?

Go nurture them, as all dreams become gold under the sun

Go nurture them, as to everyone, their dream is the one true’

‘Now you know the value, when your own dream is dead

Now you know how it feels, the loss of your dearest dream

Go and nurture the dreams of others, and pat their head;

make all those dreams come true and solace, you will redeem’

Who Gives a Shit?

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A brutal, unapologetic poem about meaning, indifference, and the absurdity of existence.

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Who gives a shit if we win or if we lose;

or if we go free, or if we tighten the noose?

We are all here to walk for only a while,

some walk for ages, and some for a mile

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Who gives a shit if you remember our deeds;

or forgotten by all for whom we sow the seeds?

We are all here to do our own part,

some make it a burden, a few make it an art

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Who gives a shit if we remain forever chaste;

or if we surrender to lust even with distaste?

We were blessed with pleasure by Him;

we must follow its fulfilment at a whim

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Who gives a shit if we walk a virtuous path;

or if we love what’s forbidden and invite His wrath?

Sins are seductive, and virtue is so boring;

to walk straight is dull, and so indulging is the whoring

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Who gives a shit if we are as moral as the prophets;

or if we favour immorality because of huge profits?

Comfortable is what this life is supposed to be;

luxury is what we should all pursue with glee

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Who gives a shit if we believe in one or more gods;

or, if we choose to be faithless and don’t bet on odds?

We may decide to be a herd without a shepherd;

but in a race for survival, we need to be the leopard

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Who gives a shit if we ever get what we want;

or if we fail and are ready to face each taunt?

When we get lucky, we should thank our stars;

when we miss the mark, it was never ours

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Who gives a shit if we are as selfless as we claim;

or if we are all selfish, playing our own game?

Life is so merciless, as we have all lived and seen;

on the other side, it is always brown and never green

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Who gives a shit if we keep on living for long;

or if we die tomorrow, being crushed by a throng?

We didn’t matter at all, we never really mattered;

our dreams of grandeur should be all shattered

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Who gives a shit if all goes quiet when we die;

or if it all restarts and we are born anew with a cry?

One cycle or one after another, a sequence or progression,

we may all be one or a part of a large procession

Chronicles of the Unhappy

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This is not a poem about sadness, but about the curse of chasing happiness.

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The unhappy are forever to remain alone,

for that is the decreed nature of their fate

Happiness is an elusive dream they pursue,

and when they fail, it is themselves that they hate

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Each time they are happy, it’s an illusion,

which fades as quickly as it had appeared

Each time they are happy, there’s a rush,

that changes into agony, soon to be feared

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Fear them not, theirs is not a black curse,

for they are unhappy but may dispense joy

With hearts so bitter and eyes so radiant,

they are like the legendary horse of Troy

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But beware, never show them any kindness,

for they assume hope where there is none

Beware, your affection is like acidic venom,

for they assume love where there is none

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For their eternally stupid pursuit of happiness,

the unhappy are pitiable and are to be mocked

And for their constant vigil for non-existent hope,

their doors remain silent and are never knocked

The Eternal Hitchhiker

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A cosmic fable of kindness, exhaustion, and the price of wandering.

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to reach some peaceful planet,

away from the chaos and the raging wars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he pays a certain heavy price

He pays it with a piece of his heart,

each time, sadly, an odd roll of the dice

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to find light, joy, and happiness,

within the darkness that kills and scars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he realizes what has always been clear

He can give happiness - anytime to anyone,

but to be unhappy forever is his only fear

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to finally rest and laugh aloud,

amongst the butterflies and a million flowers

But each time he hitches a ride,

his dreams are burnt and turn into cinders

It’s time to stop hitching rides forever;

it’s time to finally sleep in the eternal winters