Pyx #3

In this journey of a year and half and of about seventy posts, the gossip wasn’t about the near surrounding. My endeavors of writing about experiences and ideas that are far stretched at times from the reality, but still are based on little experiences of life have had a strike. There are hardly a few posts describing the experiences of eternal routine, disgruntling the few who know Uzair all too well.
Shying away from immediate reality and not appreciating the amazing events of present is part of psyche, hard coded may be. At times one needs insanity to acknowledge he has been lucky, being sober ain’t that great when emotions try filling in the little self created voids of expression.  Delusional grandeur of future, the immersion in past keeps one away from flights of today. It is amazing how an event can completely realign the course of things. It is in this liminality that we rediscover ourselves, before we plunge into the wide ocean once again.


In the wilderness of hope
red fruits of passion grow
sweetened juices of toil
quenching thirst of summer dreams.

Broad green leaves, canopy of friends
held firm with joys of maturing,
cherishing the little rain drops
cluttering over the dancing antelopes.

The birds dangle from branches
myriad creatures fluttering amok
like ideas sailing on blue waters
swift pristine walks.

Far from the fancy of doom
even from grotesque tomorrow and
the world of optimizations
where sun hides itself behind the sky
forgetting the old path to glory, 

In an attempt to invent in the regime of defined
like the bird that flew all day long
all but in a caged sky,
hanging in the center of plastered living room.

This is the end
Beautiful Friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end.

Che danestam

چه دانستم که این سودا مرا زین سان کند مجنون
دلم را دوزخی سازد دو چشمم را کند جیحون
چه دانستم که سیلابی مرا ناگاه برباید
چو کشتی ام دراندازد میان قلزم پرخون
زند موجی بر آن کشتی که تخته تخته بشکافد
که هر تخته فروریزد ز گردش‌های گوناگون
نهنگی هم برآرد سر خورد آن آب دریا را
چنان دریای بی‌پایان شود بی‌آب چون هامون
چو این تبدیل‌ها آمد نه هامون ماند و نه دریا
چه دانم من دگر چون شد که چون غرق است در بی‌چون
چه دانم‌های بسیار است لیکن من نمی‌دانم
که خوردم از دهان بندی در آن دریا کفی افیون

translated by Franklin D. Lewis:

How could I know melancholia
Would make me so crazy,
Make of my heart a hell
Of my two eyes raging rivers?
How could I know a torrent would
Snatch me out of nowhere away,
Toss me like a ship upon a sea of blood
That waves would crack that ship’s ribs board by board,
Tear with endless pitch and yaw each plank
That a leviathan would read its head,
Gulp down the ocean’s water,
That such an endless ocean could dry up like a desert,
That the sea-quenching serpent could then split that desert
Could jerk me of a sudden, like Korah, with the hand of wrath,
Deep into a pit?

When these transmutations came about
Nod desert, not sea remained in sight
How should I know how it all happened
Since how is drowned in the Howless?
What a multiplicity of how could I knows!
But I don’t know
For to counter
The sea rushing in my mouth
I swallowed a froth of opium.


you bow and i fill the wine chalice
you desire a mundane solace
and I cherish the easiest escape
your beloved is the nymph of Elysium
and I, too impatient for trade yourself for coins of the after world
while I drift towards the current
so who is better? you or me?
O sheikh, my friend lets join hands in the tavern
for us both search the same
your reward hereafter
mine the cup in my hand.

~Khan Abdul Ghani Khan