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In Washington, DC, politics dominate even the most casual conversations.

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Even The Most Beautiful Moment Is A Passing One

Even the most beautiful moment is a passing one-
We cannot hold on to forever the best life gives us-
Dying is not only in the end
But in every moment-
Sadness comes with every Happiness
And Loss with every Pleasure-
We long to remember and in remembering forget and are forgotten also

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I felt the most immortal woman

I felt the most wonderfully ameliorated woman on this fathomless Universe; when you poignantly sketched even the most infinitesimal contour of my sensuously impoverished form,

I felt the most unbelievably liberated woman on this boundless Universe; when you flirtatiously chased me till times beyond infinite infinity; behind those voluptuously rain soaked hills,

I felt the most unassailably virile woman on this indefatigable Universe; when you passionately interlocked every pore of your naked flesh with mine; tantalizingly stroking your masculine fingers through every crevice of my nubile spine,

I felt the most fearlessly intrepid woman on this endless Universe; when you timelessly stared into the whites of my eye; exploring and magically deciphering its never-ending mysteries and astounding depth,

I felt the most eclectically endowed woman on this resplendent Universe; when you whispered a tale of inscrutable desire into my ears; gently nibbling at their lobes as the Sun slowly sunk behind the enchantingly evanescent horizons,

I felt the most impregnably honored woman on this inexhaustible Universe; when you unceasingly called my name infront of the entire planet; without the tiniest of embarrassment or uncanny fear in your profoundly muscled chest,

I felt the most jubilantly fructifying woman on this boundless Universe; when you sowed the seed of your friendship; deep into the most innermost crannies of my crimson blood and veins,

I felt the most inimitably undefeated woman on this triumphant Universe; when you unflinchingly stood by my diminutive side; in my times of inexplicably asphyxiating duress and celestial felicity; alike,

I felt the most pricelessly perennial woman on this ever-pervading Universe; when you compassionately coalesced even the most mercurial line on your palms; with the innumerable permutations and combinations of destiny on my laconic hands,

I felt the most euphorically learned woman on this everlasting Universe; when you unabashedly embossed your signature of humanitarian goodness upon both my breasts; unafraid of even the most diabolical of consequence to unfurl,

I felt the most incredulously serenaded woman on this bountiful Universe; when you timelessly conserved even the most infinitesimal droplet of my sweat; in the center of your reflection even in the most hedonistic of mayhem and maelstroms,

I felt the most victoriously accomplished woman on this limitless Universe; when you blessed me with your unconquerably divinely child; fertilizing me with your undying manhood for times and centuries immemorial,

I felt the most ubiquitously worshipped woman on this unsurpassable Universe; when you discovered the most replenishing sleep of your life on the soles of my Spartan feet; wholesomely oblivious to even the most lucratively magnetizing vagaries of this treacherously robotic planet,

I felt the most astoundingly fragrant woman on this gargantuan Universe; when you tirelessly blended every of your fierily unbridled breath with mine; at the most ethereal insinuation of Sunrise and seductive nightfall,

I felt the most unlimitedly possessed woman on this spell-binding Universe; when you placed me as the most supreme throne in even the most obfuscated of your fantasy; overruling even the most uncontrollably obsessive desire of your body,

I felt the most ecstatically imaginative woman on this panoramic Universe; when you inundated even the most transient portions of my mind; body and soul; with the unconquerably optimistic kisses of tomorrow,

I felt the most opulently inebriated woman on this proliferating Universe; when you unstoppably traced the hapless barrenness of my skin; with your magically velvety tongue,

I felt the most inevitably surrendered woman on this spell-binding Universe; when you impregnably clasped me in your fervent arms; the very first time we proposed each other; to be insuperably bonded for an infinite more lifetimes,

And I felt the most blessedly immortal woman on this miraculous Universe; when you loved me more than you could love any other woman on this interminable earth; granting me not only the status of your beloved wife; but every breath that you undefeatedly inhaled in the tenure of your truncated life…

©®copyright-2005, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.

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Patrick White

Not Even The Light

Not even the light of the stars
shining like the keys to the ancient love-letters
bound among the secret jewels
of the queen of heaven
penetrates me as deeply as you do.

The planet wheels into the night
bearing its burden of humans
murdering each other
to enforce one state of ignorance
upon another
as the rabid bees
strafe the demented flowers
on the far side of the world
for enriching their radioactive pollen,
convinced in their madness
more honey than blood will flow from the wound.

I walk by myself
along the brittle banks of a frozen stream
among the detonations of the cattails
waiting like Napoleonic cannoneers
to stoke the charge of the next volley.

The snow in the sunset
is stained a spectral apricot
that disappears like breath on a cold window
and the sky is vast with my insignificance.
Two or three decades of life left,
if I'm lucky,
and though I have tried to use my time
to leave a gift for someone I will never meet,
long ago I realized
there is no way of assessing
what they will find
after the coffin closes like an eyelid
on this long, dark, radiant brevity
that once shone like the moon
in the ores of my blood.

Like the wandering of this rivulet
my heart has always been
a pilgrim without a shrine
and the direction of prayer has encompassed all
like a man getting up off his knees
and walking through an open door
to drink from the cup of his lover
in the shadows of the autumn willow
that sways like kite-tails
from the flights of fire
she ignites among the stars
that gather in the dark like strangers
before their own ghosts.

What the wind
has torn away from me like apple-bloom,
like poems, like smoke and leaf, like skies,
like tears and blood and faith
it has replaced
with these deeper revelations of you
that hang like a windfall of scarlet bells
from the branch of a dead tree in winter.

The wine of your life and light
has matured in the ferocious crucibles of the sun
and you have been poured out
like the passion of a sword
to cleave the stone of my heart
with these truant rivers of wounded silver
that flow through me like blood.

A young breeze
tries to hone the edge of its blade
on the rising moon
as a black ribbon of water
runs like a snake of oil
between the enclosing jaws
and cataracts of ice,
tiny wavelets scaling its skin
scintillant with the small commotions of stars overhead.
The bush wolves
have been nosing for muskrat
and you can almost taste the steam
rising from hot meat on the air.

I squeak like a pulley through the virgin snow,
following the banks of my own meandering,
owing nothing of myself to anyone,
wholly my own solitude,
as I pass through the gates
of the enclosing darkness
trying to enter the abyss and the mystery
of what I have lived so precariously
over the last sixty-three years,
what it means, if anything,
to be a human among these paper birches
on an island in the stream,
looking up at the intimate unattainability
of the stars,
knowing you are growing old,
that death is more populous with friends
than life, that love
has sloughed you so many times
like a viper's skin,
like the phases of the moon,
like a shrine of smoke and ashes,
that the phoenix hesitates
to robe itself in the full glory
of its former plumes of fire.

My mother will die soon.
I must say it,
voice it in my blood
to be able to bear it
and my children are clouds in the world
that no longer look for their reflections
in the eyes of the lake they arose from
as if they were merely breathed out.

And how in any god's name
can a man define the absence
he has grown to be,
except he standardize his own spinal cord
as the only measure of loss
he has to go by?
And even after
all the millennia of my walking,
standing up,
I'm still only six feet closer to the stars
though my mind can embody all of space
in a solitary thought.

And the deep, inner silence
in the empty throne-room of my heart
where even the most profound events of my life
are seen to be ultimately no more
than the antics of a jester
playing with shadows,
turns out after all to be
just another mode of weeping.

It takes a lifetime
for a dropp of water
to gather the courage to fall
from the tip of a blade of stargrass,
and the tongue has tears
the eyes know nothing of.
I admire the cool crimson
on the brushes of the ground willow
as they try to catch my likeness
on the ice-primed canvas of the snow,
but suggest
to portray me as I lived
they need to be loaded with blood not paint.

Like the moon
I have worn the same blossom
as a face
for years now
and I still don't know the fruit
that ripens beneath it;
whether my life has sweetened
in orchards of light,
or black dwarf of the forbidden apple
on a dead tree,
I taste like a full eclipse.

And what could it change even if I did know?
When the diaspora of my starseed
breaks bread
at a harvest of thorns;
who is the host
and who is the guest
and who asks for a menu?

And no matter how far from home
the journey takes him,
whether down a dead-end alley
or further than the stars
was there ever a man
who didn't walk to his own funeral
like a bell
looking for any beginning
that might not be lost in the end?
Or does the snake
that takes its tail in its mouth
as a gesture of eternity
eventually end up swallowing
its own head
like this stream before me
making its way to the sea?

I stepped across a star sill
through a vertical door into life
and in the leaving of it
I shall knock from the inside
on a door that's horizontal
to continue my descent toward earth
down a ladder of thresholds;
and what began so earnestly
among family and friends and lovers
will be concluded by a stranger
who will wear my name like a gravestone.

But here among the tangle
of these fallen trees, their roots
fleshed out
and washed like a corpse
by the water and the snow,
Venus peers through the fingers
of the branches above
where two crows have paired
like quotation marks
around the hearsay of the night
though I am left speechless
by the random beauty of the scene,
as if my voice had been released like a bird
into its own most intimate, inward vision
and that vision were everywhere you like the sky
it disappears into like I do
everytime my heart is opened
like one of the lockets of time
and I stare into your eyes
and the universe stares back
as you breathe out the night with all of its stars
and then I breathe you in
just as a golden feather of the moon
lands without a ripple
or unravelling wake
on the mirror of these lonely, black waters
I have followed deep into the darkness
like the urgent secret of my own lifestream,
and I know it's you. I know it's you.

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How Sad That Even The Best Of Us Die

How sad that even the best of us die-
That even those who do and give the most
Leave our world forever-

How sad that those of such Greatness and Goodness
Such Beauty and Wisdom
Must go.

We of such great imperfection and failure
Can perhaps understand why we should not remain

But those who are great and good
They are another question.

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To me you are the most beautiful woman

How can I catch in a single poem
the scenery that I see in your eyes,
the light that radiates in them,
the starry look that they radiate?
To me you are the most beautiful woman
and even if I could fold my arms
a thousand times around you,
words cannot really hold you.
How do a person describe
a heart that is open for the world
and wants to stop the pain
of all of humans?
Still I thank God
that you do love me.

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The Most Important......

the plane trees
with their paws like a lion; s
live for a thousand years
the chest-nut trees
live for three thusand years
the cypress-trees are upright for five thousand years
even the poplars live for seven hundred years
in greenery and white
how shoprter we live my brethren
how shorter we live
how shorter
this must be an important problem
is adjusted and equal to the
longevity of the lives of the horses yet
even
we are not equally satisfied with
the cworkld as much as them
most of us
bear burdens heavier than the
burdens
which are carried by the labour-horses

Nazım HİKMET
Translatıon metin şahin

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Football - The most beautiful game

After stepping into the field
there is no way out
even before you start the game
you hear the fans shout

The players then sings their anthem
its football......
the most beautiful game.....

And when the whistle blows
the crowd starts their roar
in the 90 tensed minutes
the players got to score

Football is friendly only in name
because friendliness is not meant for football....
the most beautiful game....

So when the hard tackles go in
and injured fellow goes out
the crowd becomes furious
and starts to shout

Even after breaking one's leg
there seems to be no shame
because its football....
the most beautiful game....

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The Most Visible Mask

you have loved the most visible mask i have
my face

everyday, this face, tomorrow this face, yesterday
this face

you are proud of my nose, and you tell all your friends about
it
aquiline, conquest of a nose, occupying almost all parts
of your territory

not even the hands but this face
the mouth that eats you

the eyes that close when
i kiss you

the tongue that maps out
what has to be found when lost

this face, the most visible mask
inside
is the real face, the face of my mind

it is thinking something else
all these years

the invisible mask is silent
tomorrow shall be the scorn

you must bear it,
you are fond of the most visible

though not really enduring.

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Not Even the Obvious Shelters Can Protect Those Afraid

It is not easy,
Being the one deceived.
Or having that done,
By more than one.
But once that is known...
The flight from it,
Can bring one a happiness.
When it is realized,
How many have accepted it.
Without comprehending...
The participants and the depth of it!

It is not easy,
Discovering the truth.
When so many deny that it exists.
Afterall...
Aren't beliefs based on non-fiction?
How can so many,
Live addicted to fiction?
But it has been done!
And to awaken from delusions,
Can stun anyone!

And this stunning when it comes...
Many will attempt to shun!
However...
This is 'reality'.
There regardless...
Who decides from it to run!

And those who were taunted,
By those who flaunted lives of lies...
Are not the ones trying to disguise,
The gloom that appears in their eyes!
A consciousness that has arrived,
Is there openly to see.
And not stunted behind masquerades...
By those in fear,
Seeking somewhere to hide!
Or somewhere to cloak,
Unspoken feelings felt inside.

These are the days,
Bare neccesities are craved.
And yet egos in self praise...
Are the ones finding the most discomfort.

But truth never hides,
Or provides charades!
Not even the obvious shelters,
Can protect those afraid!

'This is the dawning of the Age of Reality.
The Age of Re-al-ity.
Ree-al-ity!
Harmony and understanding...
And so forth and so on it goes!
And where it stops?
Nobody knows! '

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The Most Sought After Thing

What is that one thing which we all crave or want the most of in life?
is it wealth, health, fame, knowledge, love, a perfect husband or wife?
Or is it in fact a combination of all these things and yet even so much more?
something, perhaps that is everlasting, once gained can never be lost at all?

If such a thing did exist then could it be acquired or had?
and if so how could one have it and do good instead of bad?
Where would such a thing be found or come from or who be the giver thereof?
Could it be made available to all at any time when there was a genuine need of?

Is it a state of divinity the source of infinite power, knowledge and bliss
that each and every one can attain being their birthright but only dismiss?
It just so happens that all the true religions of the world seem to point in that direction
calling it specifically by a different name while having the same underlying conception.

An ultimate realised state of immortality without any restriction of time or space
transcending body, mind and individuality; every subtle and phenomenal place.
Not subject to any change or decay, though embracing all within itself seeing
and as one without any second, immaculate and complete, an unlimited being.

A supreme unique state of freedom and really the most sought after thing,
a plane of being of pure wisdom which in its wake all the above does bring.
That one victory of all victories which wins yourself and your true Selfhood
the real purpose and meaning of all life culminating in Universal Godhood.

There have been many in the past and even in the present who have gained this state
although it's virtually impossible to attain on one's own without being their good mate.
So dedicate yourself for the goal with love to gain their divine favour or benevolent grace
by a pure mind and heart seek their company letting one of them guide you to That Place.

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I AM THE MOST ordinary PERSON THAT YOU MEET on the street

Reading my poems, my essays, my comments, my biography
She thinks
I am a manic
Depressive
one infested
with a bipolar
personality
neurotic
to the
utmost
psychotic

insane crazy lost bewildered out of this world
out of touch in limbo unleashed unsheathed
out of touch out of this world

o my god
o my!

She is wrong
Completely wrong

I am the most normal, ordinary person that she can meet
on the street
In her normal life

I work in an office
With a coat and tie
My hair is shiny
With gel
My hands soft
With ease and comfort
I smell perfume
My nails are clean
You cannot even tell
That these are the fingers
That compose
The hand that composed

Those poems
Political, sadistic, masochistic
Love, libido, desire
Nature, carabaos, birds
Violence, war
Irony, paradox
Rape, murder
Food and shit
White sands
And long long vacations

I have the perfect smile
The male version of mona lisa
I have the poise of
David not Goliath

And you wonder this man is not the poet in the poems that he
Writes
I expect him to have
The looks of a madman
Scattered hair
Looking shit
Foul shit
Emaciated
Eyes with bags
Insomniac
Hot tempered

Oh my God
I have the face of angel today
And the people always tell me
I am God’s gift to them

On this I agree
Indeed I am no madman

I am a trance in that poem
I am the medium of the higher voice
I am simply an instrument
And as I write every word
I know nothing
I am not responsible for every word in my brain
I am a tool
I am a knife
I am a gun
I am a chewing gum
I am a boat
I am a motorbike
I am simply the stenographer for every word that I write

For I am merely a voice
From those who cannot speak
I am merely the messenger
For those who are souls
I am just a body
To their wisdom

I speak
What I have is only the courage to be an instrument

When all of them are gone
I am dumb
I am myself
I am the most normal person that you meet

In fact, indeed, in truth,

I am just a nobody.

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Truth and the Devil

The devil unstoppably took pride in salaciously writing; the book of
obnoxious caste-creed and venomously penalizing hatred,

The devil unstoppably took pride in acrimoniously writing; the book of
indiscriminate bloodshed and disastrously traumatizing ruthlessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in vengefully writing; the book of
tyrannical devastation and lecherously bellicose orphaning,

The devil unstoppably took pride in fretfully writing; the book of
vindictive war and satanically criminal holocausts,

The devil unstoppably took pride in maliciously writing; the book of
coldblooded barbarism and manipulatively bizarre malice,

The devil unstoppably took pride in forlornly writing; the book of
worthless
ghosts and mortuaries brutally anointed with fresh blood,

T The devil unstoppably took pride in indigently writing; the book of
nonchalant spuriousness and fecklessly insipid meaninglessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in torturously writing; the book of
ominous
animosity and hedonistically pugnacious illwill,

The devil unstoppably took pride in dictatorially writing; the book of
licentious bawdiness and insanely threadbare nothingness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heinously writing; the book of
lascivious poverty and baselessly crippling uncertainty,

The devil unstoppably took pride in savagely writing; the book of
despicable
defeat and lethally ballistic atrociousness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in raunchily writing; the book of
dolorous
delinquency and insidiously slandering betrayal,

The devil unstoppably took pride in preposterously writing; the book of
scurrilous lunatism and barbarously incarcerating fiendishness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in frigidly writing; the book of
jejune
mockery and impudently castigating brazenness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heartlessly writing; the book of
ghastly
bloodshed and indefatigably bombarding politics,

The devil unstoppably took pride in malevolently writing; the book of
prurient shit and debasingly corrupt profanity,

The devil unstoppably took pride in diffidently writing; the book of
impeachable slavery and tempestuously crucifying sanctity,

The devil unstoppably took pride in dreadfully writing; the book of
gruesome
extinction and sordidly smutty flagrance,

The devil unstoppably took pride in whippingly writing; the book of
wastrel
withering and invidiously jailing eccentricity,

The devil unstoppably took pride in grotesquely writing; the book of
merciless decimation and countless estranged lives,

The devil unstoppably took pride in gorily writing; the book of
sadistic
despondency and ignominiously deteriorating mankind,

The devil unstoppably took pride in stupidly writing; the book of
goddamned
solitude and murderously decrepit decay,

The devil unstoppably took pride in cacophonically writing; the book of
indolent withering and agonizingly cancerous disease,

The devil unstoppably took pride in belligerently writing; the book of
lost
oblivion and corrosively mad lamentation,

The devil unstoppably took pride in perniciously writing; the book of
stinking discrimination and dastardly languid nervousness,

But no matter what he wrote; where he did choose to write; what
language he
preferred to maliciously scribble; what ink he used to cold-bloodedly
lambaste; what expression he made to lousily concentrate,

Even the most infinitesimally evanescent alphabet inside his books was
irrefutably metamorphosed into a stream of immortally unending love; by
the
intransigently blazing inferno of truth; simplicity; humanity;
benevolence;
beauty; and the unassailably Almighty Lord…

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Today-the most cursed day

Ordinarily the soles of my feet didn’t bleed an
infinitesimal trifle; even as I traversed over a
blanket of a billion acrimoniously venomous thorns,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just disdainfully
crumbled an infinite feet beneath soil; as the sound
of your invincibly triumphant and gloriously
impeccable footsteps; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…


Ordinarily the hair on my skin didn’t relent an
inconspicuous iota; even as the most diabolical of
dinosaurs and war; indiscriminately paraded around my
persona,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just shriveled into
pathetic oblivion at the tiniest insinuation of
flaccid wind; as your uninhibitedly untamed valley of
sensuousness; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…

Ordinarily the blood in my veins didn’t quaver an
evanescent bit; even as the most unsparingly
hedonistic apocalypses of the devil perpetuated into
my soul,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just metamorphosed
into a grotesquely frigid white; as your brilliantly
unhindered compassion; had disappeared forever from
the horizons of my veritable sight…

Ordinarily the hollows of my ears didn’t flutter an
ethereal inch; even as unbelievably thunderous roars
of vindictive lightening; flashed left; right and
center from the belly of the murderously ballistic
sky,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just miserably
withered to each of my commands; as your inimitably
divinely and beautifully unparalleled voice; had
disappeared forever from the horizons of my veritable
sight…

Ordinarily the bones of my demeanor didn’t rattle an
infidel centimeter; even as the coffins of inevitable
death scurrilously slandered at me a countless times,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just dissolved into
fecklessly meaningless pulp at the sound of my very
own voice; as your Omnipotently everlasting tenacity;
had disappeared forever from the horizons of my
veritable sight…

Ordinarily the whites and blacks of my eye didn’t
wince a mercurial fraction; even as the belligerently
intolerable rays of the afternoon Sun unceasingly
pierced inside from all quarters,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just wholesomely
blinded to the faintest of my reflection; as the
miraculously mitigating contours of your face; had
disappeared forever from the horizons of my veritable
sight….

Ordinarily the cadence of my voice didn’t tremble a
diminutive whisker; even as there was nothing else but
iconoclastically satanic vultures plucking mouthfuls
of my flesh; with gay abandon all throughout the
night,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just transformed into
a cadaverously stony silence; as the Omnipresent smile
of your magical lips; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…

Ordinarily the spirit of my conscience didn’t stagger
a minuscule hairline; even as the entire planet beside
me embraced manipulative prejudice; to catapult to the
pinnacle of spuriously lackadaisical success,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just dissipated into a
zillion pieces of nothingness even before it could be
caressed; as your trail of perennially blessing
righteousness had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…

Ordinarily the beats of my heart didn’t betray a
parsimonious speck; even as egregiously perverted
treachery had become everyone’s morning cup of tea,
But today; the 3rd of April; they converted entirely
into lifelessly delinquent stone although torrential
rainshowers of love pelted all across; as your
charismatically immortal shadow had disappeared
forever from the horizons of my veritable sight…

And ordinarily the air of my nostrils didn’t stutter
an abstemious ounce; even as the mortuaries of hell
personally descended to incarcerate me into doldrums
of inane nothingness,
But today; the 3rd of April; it evaporated a countless
kilometers beyond the land of decaying oblivion;
although I was impregnated with robust blood; body and
bone; as your pristinely unimpeachable and
Unconquerably mellifluous spirit; had disappeared
forever from the horizons of my veritable sight..

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Strongest Men are the Most Lonely

Apart from all men,
That have taken the world
Of genders, ambivalent or certain
Might have blunted themselves
Like stones on the shore

And in all their hearts,
Cancel the robust, omit the womanizers
Isolate the drunkards, and ostracize the blissful
One would remain, and straight with candor,
I will tell you this: he is the strongest.

Robust men, who pilfer the weak
And the womanizers with a blarney so obsolete
That it has overstated what stain these men hold
In their souls, that is why they fail to enrapture women
I too, have failed to enthrall, with or without love.

For the air is as scintillating,
As for the air that women share with men,
And that, as we ostracize the ebullient,
And talk about their tedious work during supper
We would be pondering over the unnoticed:

Where are all the lonely men?
You wouldn’t know, and you wouldn’t be sure
Because their tears are the most pure,
They ensconce pain because they’d rather see you there
In bejeweled beds, or waterbeds, making love with a drunkard

I shall quote Ibsen, like Bukowski did
For the quote justifies and vindicates the deed
The strongest men are the most lonely.” You dare talk to me about somber
The somber felt in the loss of one’s reputation, without love
Then I shall tell you a story, where I have lost love before it took off.

In a thousand hazy nights, I do not drink with people
Stupid people, sullying with the same kinds of men and women
Who know nothing about pain, or what mystery lies
Behind the strongest men, for society has dictated
That a broken man is either confused with gender, or not that sharp with women.

I will tell you why I am not sharp with women,
And I shall tell you about my prayers
With my hands folded in the soliloquy of nostalgia and sallow nights
As my pallid lips utter words, words of the strongest men,
We do not pray for merriment, we pray for torture

Because men are forged with experience,
And not with cheap thrills of sex, alcohol, lust and indolence
If you do so, then you are not forged,
You are a child, in a playground, wan and wild
But devoid of all learning

Do if you must, conquer if you shall,
I tell you, I have been there, but not with lust and indolence and sex
But with alcohol perhaps, because a lonely man deserves a drink
From a goblet, in a narrowing room, and in a world that shrinks
Right before his feet, feet of stone.

So again, do not be envious
I am lonely, perhaps then, I am strong
Or maybe, I am wrong
Because with love, or without love
In the eyes of one woman, I am in distraught

The strongest man gets to be laughed at,
Jeered at, with stabbing convictions tousled in some bed
Not of cotton, but of sand, quicksand maybe, buried underneath it
No rescue has arrived, it is okay, for he is chivalric
Perhaps a gin tonic would do, if the circumstance permits.

I tell you again, I drink until I die,
Or at least, until the birth of the dawn,
But I never forget to kneel on both knees to pray,
Never did I avoid my pains, trust me, I cry at night
And cringe with the pain that I feel, perhaps, I will not be all right.

I am staunch in my beliefs,
That when one suffers here, animate, then he must be
Entitled to some kingdom far off, when time tells him so
Because the strongest men do not have place here on Earth,
They will never be approved by the mirth of the Gods.

I do not know if I am strong, let’s say,
A woman has left me; I will weep, and yes a woman has left me departed
In the morose dusk, I would feel unwanted,
As I unravel and unsheathe my scrawny shin,
I weep like a river, with my tears trickling down my chest

I would not advise you to give everything,
Because if love is a gamble, then it must be hinged
Or manipulated, fabricated or done with hearts on halves
Yet, I still did, wagered everything, gambled my whole life
As if to say, that in the conclusion, I will have my wife

Yet, my voyage is devoid and null
Look at me, I am categorized among the strongest men
Though not strong, for society has dictated again: “A man does not cry.”
Did you even ask why?
Maybe not, for men are scared of the truth.

In the littlest gist of allegories,
In poetry, prose, novels and short stories,
I have encountered men, who are the same as I am,
In times I long to live in a book, in the lines of a narrative
So all of you could see what lies behind this face

And so apart from all men,
The strongest are the loneliest
And so when the abandonment sets loose in a tempest
You will watch them weep, with or without love
But never did they flee. They never did.

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The Most Abused Word-GOD

i refuse to use God
preferring Divinity because
it's the most abused word

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She has got the most beautiful eyes

She has got the most beautiful eyes
that shines like rainbows,
with the peculiar ability
to suddenly cheer me up.

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The Most Depressing Thing Of All

The most depressing thing of all
I've learned from many lessons
Is when you don't feel better from
A few anti-depressants

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The Most Valuable

Which is the most valuable?
‘My life’ said all men alike.
Nothing is the most valuable
That man is willingly possesses.

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The Most Powerful Tool!

forgiveness...
...the
......most
....... ..powerful

...tool

in the human world!

simply because...
...you have to
......do it

..to get it!

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The Most Normal Thing That Happens In The Mall

an ocean of people
inside the mall
many people are talking
within themselves
no one listens
to each his own minding
the most normal thing
that happens
here in the mall

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