Bleed Green

So many proud moments swept under the rug…

Monday Morning At The Dugout

Did you know that Pakistan football team beat India in India only a few months ago or that Pakistan baseball team is the current defending champions of the West Asia Baseball Cup? It is highly unlikely that you did, because sports other than cricket do not get the attention they deserve.

It’s about time we start paying attention to the plethora of gifted individuals we have in our Country; the underdogs, the unsung heroes of our nation. The media seldom pays heed to achievements of less popular sports; winning gold medals in karate or skiers winning back to back medals in international competitions will generally not appear as breaking news whereas a cricketer missing curfew will be all over the front page of every newspaper in the country.

Karate and skiing may not be considered mainstream sports in our region, but what about football? Thousands upon thousands follow football religiously…

View original post 353 more words

It’s Never too Late

As they say, age is but a number…

Behind Drawn Curtains

Act 1:
In the wake of the infernal arson you dance – 
The fairy, the virgin, the countess, the witch.
Oh, how they sentenced you to the stake; 
It was one fine Sunday morning centuries ago!

Act 2, Scene 1:
To this day, through the ashes, your face floats,
A weathered charcoal portrait, perverted.
The smoke won’t go down
This dust will never settle

Act 2, Scene 2:
And it’s here, the fateful moment, it has finally arrived
However contrary, today is the tomorrow I dreamed of
As I stand now here before you, barefoot, slab of ice ‘neath my feet, 
My neck squeezed in a noose, my being numbed by the wintry fear,
Waiting, waiting for you to play the final notes of my life’s opus;
“A good day to die”, I hear my demons sing, “A good day indeed!”

The Final Act:
This is the end of euphonic laughter echoing in forests
And thirst-quenching tears pouring out of cloven earth. 
Never would the roses grow again,
Never again shall I taste your pain.
For your name has poisoned my soul,
Exhausting, now, forever my lifeblood.
Refuse not my sacrifice:
A chalice full of my death.

Drink lest thy shadow shalt fade away
Drink lest thy spirit shalt fly away

The Last Tango

At the end of the day, I close my eyes,
The future drops by to say hi and dies;
The past pays me a brief revisit too,
Reminding me how painfully time flies.

The times gone by circle around a pyre,
Dancing till the flames grow ice-cold;
The times yet to come rise, revive it,
And take me where possibilities unfold.

I try to awake from the dream – denied,
I claw from within the casket – in vain;
My vanity succumbs to my predicament,
And existence admits to being mundane.

Past and future return for an encore,
Tango in the ashes, in a state enchanté;
Shackled, I am but a prisoner of sleep,
Whether I’m numb or dead, who’s to say?

I am a sinner; I just have not sinned yet.

It’s all here, buried deep in my mind:
In some hidden nooks and crannies.
There are some things I know not; 
Others, I’d rather you didn’t know.

Coated in a film of the mundane and bland, 
I am much more than what meets your eye.
Incarcerated in my head, reside demons;
They feast over my soul for sustenance.

The demons are jolly good company; 
They talk to me about my raison d’être.
Just like happiness, they keep telling me,
It is nought but a mere wild goose chase.

Every time they struggle to break free, 
I push down a pint of the potion of pain.
Should my demons ever take over me,
I will have to walk away from you.

Elle

Frozen in winter time, the snow-clad horizon,
Steals a peek at the sun veiled by a grey curtain.
From a landscape virginal white like a story book Christmas,
She smiles with the faint radiance of a snow-filmed lantern.

Enter spring and the roses, oh how they blossom,
Colours seeping from flowers to the onlooker’s eyes.
She is warmth of the day and the fragrance of night;
She is the moon that shines, and twilight of sunrise.

Summer sun rises, glistering over sands of happiness,
While waves of glory playfully caress the golden shore.
Amid celebrations and festivities, she dwells;
She is the one so oft worshiped in lore of yore.

Autumn arrives a little too soon, bringing home ashen greys,
Welcomed by melancholy of fallen leaves and fruitless trees.
Hues of dullness invade the wilderness of time,
She is now the icy wind that was once cool breeze.

Elle, who holds all the seasons dancing in her palm,
Is the mistress of sunshine, the goddess of rain.
Elle, the mysterious creature most alluring, most intriguing,
Inflicts pain through pleasure and endows pleasure through pain.