[dream of liberty is
thicker than magma]

(after [love is more thicker
than forget] by E. E. Cummings)

dream is thicker than magma
thinner than the feeble breeze
more cumbrous than asthma
more buzzing than bees

it shall never be dead
livelier than the red sun
a pencil filled w/ lead
making a child draw & moon

dream is a smouldering ember
letting your heart beat
it is a decay-proof timber
yet, it is larger than the woods

shinier than the Northern Star
its lights never dwindle
it spackles your memory’s scar
because it’s as panacean as elixir.


One Vowel

“Kill anything that speaks!”

This is the dictator’s motto.

“Just enjoy those mute arias!”

These are the dictator’s preferred tunes.

Yes, you can kill speech.

You can cut tongues.

But don’t expect to sleep well & snort

because a BOMB is planted in every

silent tongue.

Just remember

that one vowel will ooze through the sieve

of any silencing system.

—One [VOW]el will wake you up

full of fear.


Freedom Begins

The daffodils leaves are still sleepy.

Caressed by the dew’s debris

they start milking the sun.

& freedom begins

when the first sunlight flooded

the field.


The Dream of Freedom

To define “freedom” is as important a work

of art as any, as is to draw a map not on a

termite-eaten atlas but (virtually) in your mind,

while waging a fierce war on stagnant geography,

while full of life on the banks of the river of dreams.

The dream of freedom is a castle – more fortified

than fortification – w/ many windows in all sides

just waving to the sun where all rooms of despair

fall asunder letting the sun’s lights welcome

all dreamers in a freshly blossoming garden.

Dictatorship is not a fate. When afflicted by it you

should do your best to speak. If you don’t speak

that means you are not a dreamer & that you

have no mouth. Flies will just laugh at you &

reside in it. — A pond enclosed.


A Simplified Sonnet for Freedom

for the soul of Nelson Mandela

A bud that blooms.

A spring’s bird that sings.

A sun that never sets.

A bee that always buzzes.

A fire that always flames.

A light that never dims.

A sun that smiles.

A seed that sprouts.

A siren that always sings.

A gaze that always glitters.

A fire that is always fierce.

A blossoming almond tree.

A jubilant wave that breaks out the

confines of the sea.— Light in a somber cave.


When You Are Silent

When you are silent, you are not alone.

Art is with you. The symphony will not

begin unless you are silent. W/ exhalation

of all nonsense you shall leak art &

all the fuss about art.

When you run out of words just have

recourse to silence.

When you run out of red wine just have

a chalice of tomato juice.

Yes, we can put tomato juice in a chalice.

The poetics of silence is an avant-garde

chalice which reflects something from

the innermost; something that speaks:

—A silent sitcom


Life Is Meant To Be Inhaled

Like a rainbow that yawns in an embryo’s imagination

a deposit of zygotes smiles against death.

Life requires steps, exercises, & smouldering

embers. Afterwards, life is meant to be inhaled;

totally inhaled; not exhaled.

& it’s my job to exile sensations of death,

adding saccharine breath to the cloying life.

Life is larger than to be worn by a place;

by a sinister sensation.

See! Even breasts try to avoid the confines

of the bra.

Everything tries to escape the confines

of the cage.

Everyone tries to escape death.


The Silence of Roses

The fresh poem that rose from centuries of silence:

— Fragrant narratives are in the process of fermenting

& forming.

—The eloquent silence of roses at rest,

at dawn.

Silence & grace— a grammar arose

to signify.


It Must Be a Voice

Hollow wall devoid of theories.

Errant bees steep into the holes.

Exhalation of buzzing voices.

Hence, limitless possibilities of

smearing the quietude behind closed doors.

Quietude is boring. So it must be a voice.

The solution is in murdering silence

w/ shrilling voices.

Silence is unbreathable.

It must be a voice. It must be

a breather.

We won’t feel release unless the voice

begets candelabra & outcries.


A Little Theory of Silence

Sometimes eloquent

silence lances the boil of the underground


& sticks its nose to what crops out – noise.

Look at this image:

—The nostrils of a sleeping ox.

Then, a buzzing fly.

Then, a symphony of moos begins.

Silence sometimes appears in the form

of recycled words:

—Metaphors hiding in capsules

of ashy mosses.

Silence is synecdoche of a simmering



Concoction of Liberty

The news said the dictator died.

They put a garland of jasmine on his carrion.

A lamp was swaying amidst the grave:

— A treacherous translation of light.

But true light would glisten again

to wash away the limitations of your body.

Inside your free soul, the rapture

of the cosmos takes the shape of bonfire.

When your blood clots on the paper

true light would glisten again

on the altar of your memory.

True light would glisten again & again.

I see the butterflies enjoying those creative

concoctions of liberty silhouetting onto

the surface of the fountain’s water.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s