how outlandish the sufferings appear

when ebbed away with waves of time

and my lips form a victorious sneer

and from my heart rises a usual crime

of highly pleasing pride and conceit

no matter how dysphoric the hardship

the triumph is pure, true and sweet

like the judgement of a blind man

who hears, smells,feels,understands

untouched by enchanting evil of the sight



i rarely disbelieve my eyes

but my eyes never believe in them

when studying the monumental self

they see the hollow space and pry

into spectral absence of symmetrical rhythm

but not the mountain high pansophy

into the waning strength of weakness

but not the dying weakness of maturity

into the mirages of aesthetical dearth

yet never the euphoric moments of ecstatic faith

why are you hidden inside O truth

when you are so invincible?

and now I decide to call myself

a diplopic dreamer


knows he the depths of the sea,

the mysteries of space, the unctuous truth,

the lie, the wrong, the right, the real glee

but what prevails is the heedlessness

consciously rejected, instinctively dreamed


i could not help thinking why i was not irritated by current situations to an extent that a wish to go back in time originates in my heart. why, in spite of all the fiascos of my present life, my proletarian lifestyle, my acceptance of the fact that i have been a failure, my valueless presence, my unrecognized honesty i never wished once to be young again, to be pure again, to start again, to live again! while strolling lazily down the street i looked at those young couples walking hand in hand, heart in heart, smiling and laughing with indifference. one part of me wanted to feel jealous but could not get enough life to bulldoze other parts, better parts with its hideousness. even my  incessant resurrection of mysterious grievances buried far back in the confused sunless earth of time could not stop me from hoping for a revival.

may be it is because of my will to grow that i love whatever comes my way. may be i am very strong. or may be i am very wrong.

The Waning Ecstasy

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.

there is a trance-like emotion where we forget ourselves and delve into an object of interest. ecstasy, normally connected to great mystical moments but there is everyday, normal, vulgar ecstasy: the ecstasy of anger, the ecstasy of speed, the ecstasy of sight . i have delved into such everyday normal vulgar ecstasies but never in the real ecstasy (not the drug).

above is Shelley’s The Waning Moon. The ecstasy i search is waning all the time, even before its born in my mind. There is one tool of its origination though: Namaz.

I wish it lives and breathes with me, the waning ecstasy.