Friday, April 27, 2007

Then the most terrible of terrible things happened. The dark tower drew a deep sigh as it bellowed from the deepest trench of it's heart that neither burned nor lived. The ring fell into oblivion of the fire that flowed with the lament issued out of the cries of elves, dwarves, men and wizards, in the wicked labryinth of Mount Doom- where no mortal dream, inspiration, suffering and pain can survive its carnivorous pinnacle of its teeth . This fire had grown over by nurturing on the flesh of them. The only kind that it never tasted was that of a hobbit for it thought them to be too meek to yeild strength and too week to draw swords of brandishing power. And what an iron of an irony destiny speaks- now the only thing that it gets from the smallest hobbit is a finger! (of course, along with its precious ring- so true!)

The Tower falleth!

Chapter I : The Love of The Eye!

Oh what fate I suffer- challenged by the challenged of all!
For all this creature (Hobbit) in this Earth should know
Is to figure out tricky ways to grow tall!

And then they would drink and dance- uncared for a word of the world
Whilst my soul takes refuge, as my body fell loose
When Isildur shaves my arm off... with his aluminium sword!

"Damn" I whistled, for I cursed my food
Devoid of nutrition, my orc cook would cook.

I paid them with salaries,
That matched the ones of the rich
But still they stole my meal...
A great deal of Protein!

But ah! what a day it was...
When the first of all I behold the Galadriel
Alone in her garden- blessed with the sun,
Playing Tournament- Unreal!

Oblivious of the times when Sun yet not born,
When Roses pleased the lover as he touched no thorn,
And clouds bore the colours of the winters time,
And meadows float between the ocean's divide.

But yet behold the gem- before whom I kneel
So distant, so close- oblivious to all
The sole and silent- the beauty, Galadriel.

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Monday, April 16, 2007

There was a time- unprotected but unscathed...
Followed then the blowing of the horn,
When soldiers rode the parade
As they caught the glitter of the skies
In their edges of their blades
And castles drowned the mountains to rise...
To form our days- protected but scathed.

The way back from my department is a fifteen minutes walk- which qualifies to be languid- methodically following the directions of signal lights everytime. There are uphill alleys which eventually pours downhill to meet another of his ally of alleys as I see the rise and fall of the sky before me, as if a huge rise and release of the bossom of a heavenly mammal while breathing. And hence everyday, I obtain an exclusive half an hour of self-contemplation, mostly of failures and lessons learnt as a consequence but which is again as if one of those double-starred undergraguate math-exercises, extremely difficult to crack it- then comes failure after much forceful, fierce attempts and when the time for give-up arrives- you feel the whole time was a waste cause it never contributed to your understanding.
Failure loses you as if you were a whisper amidst a tantrum of war-cries.

Have you seen a marathon race in television? Sure you have I guess.
I guess walking the walk on the blue-painted lane of life is something like that I feel. If someone asks me over the phone- "How are things going man?". The inevitable reply that slips through our lips is-"Fine" and then they fall tight closed- like a woman's purse-scarce of content.
And after a fortnight, if the same question comes up... the same answer follows. It is like switching on the TV and find a marathon runner running and then if you turn the TV set on after an hour, you find the same guy running in the same way- may be a bit more tired.

I remember, when the days were such that kept me too young- I found excitement in switching on the lamp- then followed the days when facing a fast-bowler in cricket was an act of defience- then came the days when senses blossomed- started to recognise colours but still strictly categorised into black and white- the bad and the good- then quickly lingered behind, the art of recognition of finer shades- the various forms of grey. It's a pity that our understanding of the affairs of the world is squeezed into the interplay of two shades only.

I stop now, for I feel running out of coherence- as if stranded over the cliff and then flung into a dream where you can swim along the sea to climb the sky... Well instead of me doing that-

It would be wise,
yes it would be wise my dear... my dear love.
To stop our pursuit which feels endless,
And hold each others hands instead.