How much i miss you....

For every caress of wind, that reminds me of your breath
For every join of my lips, that reminds me of your kiss
For every waft I breathe in, that reminds me of your scent
For every striking gust, that reminds me of your touch
For every strand of hair, that reminds me of your mane
For every spoken word, that reminds me of your lies,
For every silent spasm, that reminds me of your apathy
For every oblivion of sleep, that makes me feel your presence
For every spot of melanin, that reminds me of the ravishment
For every moment of pride, that reminds me of the indignity
For every ounce of happiness, that reminds of the delusion
For every lost success, that reminds me how you gave up on me
For every vanished ambition, that reminds me how I learned to not want you
For every truthful lover, that reminds me of your untruth
For every passing moment, that adds to my memory
For as long as im cursed with life,
I hereby tell you .... That this is how much I miss you!


P.S. This poem came out of me after watching the movie "Casanova" .... screwed haan ! :)

17 Benefits of Tribulation

By Hamza Yusuf
Courtesy: Khany

The Kiss

"The Kiss", one of my favorite paintings by one of my favorite artists, Gustav Klimt .... :).

Yoon he chul diye

kyoon a gaye,

zor-e-jamal tha? mehz khayal tha ?
malamat kiye, phir grehn diye,
yoon he chul diye !

kyoon keh diye,
kay mazah tha? buss kalam tha?
na gumaan kya, mera maan tha!
yoon he keh diye !

kyoon suna chalay,
kay dil kiya? irada diya ?
na khayal kiya, main bhi saath tha !
yoon-he suna chalay!

kyoon chul diye,
na kahay? na sunnay?
sub liye, dard diye,
yoon he chul diye!

What the Eyes don't see, the Heart doesn't Grieve over ? !

In all the languages in the world, there is the same proverb: "what the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't grieve over." Well, i say that there isn't an ounce of truth in it. The further off they are, the closer to the heart are all those feelings that we try to repress and forget. If we are in exile, we want to store away every tiny memory of our roots. If we're far from the person we love, everyone we pass in the street reminds us of them.

The gospels and all the sacred texts of all religions were written in exile, in search of God's understanding, of the faith that moves whole peoples, of the pirlgrimage of souls wandering the face of earth. Our ancestors did not know, as we do not know, what the Divinity expects from our lives -- and it is our of that doubt that books are written, pictures painted, because we don't want to foget who we are -- nor can we!

An excerpt from "Eleven minutes" by Paulo Coelho.

Maria's Understanding of Love

From Maria's diary, when she was seventeen:

My aim is to understand love. I know how alive i felt when i was in love,and i know that everything i have right now, however interesting it might seem, doesnt really excite me.

But love is a terrible thing: i've seen my girlfriends suffer and i dont want the same thing to happen to me. they used to laugh at me and my innocence, but now they ask me how it is I manage men so well. I smile and say nothing, because i know the remedy is worse than the pain: i simply dont fall in love. With each day that passes, i see more clearly how fragile men are, how inconstant, how insecure and surprising they are ... a few of my girlfriends fathers have propositioned me, but i've always refused. At first, i was shocked, but now i think its just the way men are.

Although my aim is to understand love, and although i suffer to think of the people to whom i gave my heart, i see that those who touched my heart failed to arouse my body, and that who aroused my body failed to touched my heart.

An excerpt from "Eleven minutes" by Paulo Coelho.

Of Suffering

Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through thevines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.

Excerpt from "De Profundis" by Oscar Wilde