“How are you?”
“Fine, but finer today!”
“How so, win lottery?”His friend looked animated.
“ Uh…A helluva thing!” The man said and secretly laughed.
“And so I! But don’t worry brother; life itself is so. Isn’t it?” He lit a cigarette fixing eyes to the splattering clouds.
His friend put a puckered face, and sat silent and sad.
“Brother,” he said after a while, “finally find a queen in the jungle. Ah! A helluva thing! She never hears books, schools…It’s a deal, brother, it’s a deal!”
“A duffer!” His friend spat and left.
@abusiddik, 27th sept, 2018
Have you seen a fine drizzle in crimson sky?
Have you seen the tree tops decked with white herons?
Or, have you been a witness to swaying paddy fields
And hear the mourning of the wind?
Have you gone to a forest deep and
Passed a night on a wild tree?
Have you eyed the silver moon
When trees whisper and animals prowl?
Only then you know what I mean, my friends.
You know me not as I a rustic,
You know me not as I don’t brag,
You know me not as I don’t tread
Your smooth highways, and
You know me not as I drink honey and dew
In unsung hinterlands
Among the rough peasants and woodmen,
You know me not as I shy,
You know me not as I an Idler,
Do nothing you reward and aspire.
happy reading, my friends!
@abusiddik 10 Sept, 2018
Tomorrow you find me nowhere.
Come, and see the desolation!
The four white walls will breath our smell, And the cot where we sit side by side and Caress your cascading hair and talk many wonders lie empty now.
I will be gone far far away, and never meet again.
But you come and alone walk the path of Old days of milk and honey.
Come and weep, and when warm tears Glide your sunken cheeks, eye , my dear,
The old landscape painting we so admire.
Believe me, it was not my fault
Nor yours. Forget me , but not forget
The misty morn, and the cool evening, and
The deserted path we walked hand in hand.
And forget not the rustle of the dry leaves, and the mimic of the whistling birds.
@abusiddik 6th Sept, 2018.
An old man used to squat in a dimly lit hut.
He was eighty above, and tall and fair,
But now wizened and crooked.
Hundred evenings I saw him naked,
And counted his protruding rusted ribs,
And oft my eyes glued to his sculptured face.
Never had I seen him laugh or weep,
A stoic look he wore, and passed his dead days,
Muttering and mumbling.
A thousand tales his eyes cherished to tell,
Tales of rose and war and hunger days,
But where were the listeners?
Outside it was dark, and the smell of the wood,
The sparkling stars and the scythe moon
And the silver leafless trees spun a tale of their own.
@abusiddik 5th Sept, 2018.