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06/06/2016 by Siddiqui Fayesal

Hearing the beats of the races
Of old,
Old were the years and their Horses
Were gold.

Gold were the reins by which
The horses were held,
Held by the victorious
Arms of Men.

Men to be slain by the
Silver tipped spears,
Spears which were bathed
In crimson smears.

Smeared across the heads
Of the marching bands,
Bands whose rhythm
Defied the Godly Hand.

Hand that played a Godly tune
While the men made plans,
Plans that were meant to
Be the savior of clans.

Clans that were held by
Kings in chains,
Chains for valour
And their mighty claims.

Claims that parted the seas
And broke the Moon,
Moon’s vaning and
Waxing singing lost fortunes.

Fortunes of Gods and his
Fellow Messengers;
Messengers who were sent
From the Holy Years.

Years that have lost the
Magic from our bearings,
Bearing that went deaf
When it was worthy of hearing.

Siddiqui F.

NB: Wrote this at Alpine, a little Guest House by the river Parvati.

It was a given to write a poetry when I sat along the banks of the river. I say banks all the time but, to be honest, it’s not really the banks. At least, I’m not sure about it. At the cost of sounding stupid, is it really ‘banks’ if it’s not natural? I mean it isn’t that the café has chairs around the rocks that quietly guard the river. The chairs are of plastic that sit around plastic tables that are itself on a man-made embankment of artificially cut stones and then mortared to let it stay that way.

I don’t want to accept it, but I am being forced to. 

This is not written at the banks.

I wish it was.

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