22/06/2011 by Siddiqui Fayesal
It’s been a long time since
I’ve peered over these books of mine,
They’ve taught me to love, hate and
Now they read my mind.
They lose me in their colours of joy and
Within their whirlpools of dismay,
Every time I read them the
Story is different and the end frayed.
My pigment and parchment will
Take me far away, beyond my soul.
‘Tis a lie for sure but what a lie
To hear and be told.
These pages hide the Treasures of
Vikings; Loots of pirates and more;
The beauty of Eve; The strength of
Atlas and Powers forgone.
Within the realms of these
I’ve loved the women I will never have.
I’ve killed those beast that
Shall never roam our lands.
I’ve been to the peaks of Heaven
And the troughs of hell.
I’ve tasted death even.
Even before the sound of Knell.
They say that these writings
And scribblings are a waste,
Written by men and women who
Never knew haste.
Penned by those who knew
Not sinewy arms
So they used their idle time
Spewing such farce.
And what a farce they spewed to
Consume all races whole;
And then be trusted by testimonies,
Swears, promises and oaths!
What lethargic being could say
These wonders aloud?
Which fastidious soul wrote
Things that was not to be allowed?
How they thought of stories,
Warriors, women and plots,
Gave them flesh, blood and bone;
Gave us company in our lonely cots
Who can yet say, in anger or
With spite, but with surety,
That no book has he perused
And yet he fakes equity.
How many have felt the thrill of
Sliding across ice in icy boots,
If not by them who took the pains
Of describing the deathly chutes.
Who can yet talk, and tell, like a
Man he thinks himself to be,
That the warring pen and sword
Is merely metaphorical history.
Who has seen love unless it
Was from the window of Juliet,
Who has seen pain if not through
The eyes of Hamlet.
Who has learnt that the most
Difficult task is easily got,
If not by the perseverance of Milton
While he penned ‘Paradise Lost’.
Can my brothers tell what it
Feels like to welcome doom?
I was with Cassius when
He welcomed the boon.
Can anyone forgo the pleasure of
Reading the minds of the greats?
Of Shakespeare, Chekhov, Dickens,
Wilde and William Blake.
Who would, if they’ve read them,
Not want to again hear
Bronte, Tagore or Faulkner.
Finally, my friends, take care
Of your hopeless lives.
What else will it be if you’re
Lost in your idle Time.
Take control of your fake and
You’ll never see glory if you ignore
These telling signs.
And the signs are these
For you to read,
Boredom, Laziness, Gandering
At girls, you sleaze,
Vilification of ideals and
Abusing your olds.
This means you’re
Using more time than you own.
What does Gandalf and Watson
Have in common, you twerp?
If only you knew these be people and
Not tools or plants, you jerk.
There are books to be read
And to be learnt a treasure from.
Go use your lives to a better
End and justify your own.
The first Para and the first two lines of the 2nd was written at Marine Drive on 22.05.2011.
The next 6 and a half were written the same day but at a friends House.
Para 9 to 19 was written again at Marine drive on 07.06.2011.
Para 20 to 25 was written at 22.06.2011 at work.