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The last time I saw the trees, their branches are beginning to wear broken leaves. The grasses have grown dusty beards, they are no longer the he(art)beats of beautiful gardens. Nature has found a name in the lust in a man’s eyes; they are no longer God made but god made. The stars are perching on my windows, this time not with radiance but a touch of its other side. I do not know when life begins to hold reflective mirages, maybe it was all a dream, maybe creation was never created and we are all floating through existence, or maybe its undergoing recreation and soon there shall be another book of genesis, maybe God is packing his packages bits by bits, a preacher said the end is near- I guess this is it, even the moon now has a faulty sight and there are no spectacles to them, the plants are crying for sun in the presence of sunlight, the rains now comes in the cry of a girl with scars of lost memories and a boy whose names are dumped refuse, attracting flies of depressions and dejection, they now come in the moans of a mother whose beauty is painted on the mud of shame, somewhere in a brothel- it was how she was taught to find God, since they said he is love, the rains now come through the flames of burnt men whose sons are echoes of what happened in buni yadi.
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The more I try to see, the more my sight goes in dumb vision. The more I see, the more nothing I behold. Life is beautiful, but what is beauty?- a word in the league of non-existing words.
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A girl is dissolving into verses of dirges, her mother died the last time a man sail the western part of her thighs and the eastern of her heart, she asked me about God, the little I know about him is that he lives in our heart, she said I’m a lunatic- that God don’t live in the heart of men like her father- men who carry life on their head, heading nowhere. A boy wrote a song for a fellow wayfarer; his lyrics are the stammers of his father, gulping death in silence. Life he said is a journey, whose roads are filled with the carcass of dead and broken bodies- a time would come when we shall sail with the wind, and shall leave a part of us in the heart of the living, in the heart of those we hope to see someday even in our afterlives . Another funeral would be held tomorrow, it’s the funeral of a beautiful maiden with an infectious beauty, her beauty is like the silence of dark and quiet places, it doesn’t shout but glitters, it doesn’t speak but you could hear its echoes from thousand miles. I never knew beautiful ones die too; I thought death understands the language of beauty and how she flaunts her waist, feeding men with the awes of her sight. Mother said when a man dies;
-it’s like to be faced with the other side of the moon, only to realize it shines too
-it’s like the sky, barren with stars, yet feeling whole and complete
-It’s liken to a place where destinies are in their destination- not a place where men are bothered by fate
-a place where love is everlasting- where it lives till it becomes a page in the history of eternity
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Life is beauty wrapped in ashes, it’s a replica of what we perceive to be beautiful- but not, life is vanity in the attire of everything, it’s like the portrait of a shadow leading nowhere- sometimes, just when we thought we have arrived, million miles still lay uncovered, life is like a book- one you read to walk out of your body (mortality is hidden somewhere in its page).
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The more I try to see, the more my sight goes in dumb vision. The more I see, the more nothing I behold. Life is beautiful, but what is beauty?- a word in the league of non-existing words.
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