In the midst of crisp
gold shaded russet berries.
Frosty growling breeze
tread upon my flesh less bony words
crackling nothing but your name...

Paras Ali/2016

With the straws of dusty petals
Bare anklet of berries
and ruined pieces of blue barren clouds
They create an ageless doll's house
I Autumn and my Pen


Paras Ali/2016

Ripping open my veins
with the munching storm of yellow leaves
And sinking teeth of your glassy gaze
inside my frosty eyes
setting me blazed
Till my bones to million snippets break
into blood drenched verses
Where fall blooms an immortal Spring
over my fragile country of paper
Dear Beloved or my tormentor
Who am I to you?


Paras Ali/ 2016

A Lost Battle

(Dedicated to freedom fighters of Kashmir. May Allah bless them achieve their cause. Ameen)

Collaboration work of Paras Ali and very talented dear writer Asma Mughal

"Rumors ran amok that this brawny soldier has been behind shaking off metals and shrouding millions of villagers in white coffins now what makes you stand dumb ? I can see your hands are quivering. The girl in a mocking pitch asked looking straight into the eyes of the soldier. A strange silence descended all over quietening the barrel of HK MP5 rifle held by the soldier. All he could see the reflection of his bleak and bony , black marble resembling eyes in her grayish emerald iris canopied by beady eye sockets. No wind murmured a whistle only it shut the jaws of surrounding cacophony. No sooner the twilight rays wearing anklets swirled and curled around her pupil's edges he saw an immense goddess in her writing with emerald flecks a book of myths. Everything was on its right place except the eyes that have taken the place of the tongue. The girl eyes were translating those dauntless notes which he has never heard in these twenty eight years of his existence .He made one more step towards her and she yelled. "Shoot me you coward but dare not touch an inch of hair of mine ". Are you not scared of death ? Lost in bewildering empathy the soldier questioned.

'Death! What the hell death is!, the monster that ends up everything, your plaything, savoiur of your pride...huh...you a soldier...kill as many as you want and get yourself drowned in the pool of contentment, if your conscience allows it. I ain't fear death.', they were eye to eye so close having a strange connection. He had fixed the muzzle of the gun on her throat and clutched hold of her body in a way that the hurt penetrated deep in her bones. But neither did she scream nor begged for mercy. It was as if she had already handed over her body to him. The soldier's mind was boiling with questions like, who wishes to die at such a younger age? Why wasn't her body resisting? What messages were being conveyed by those rather small and unattractive eyes? There was a pause on both sides, then she looked to the right and he to the left, he was crushing his teeth while she was breathing faster. both were hearing their silent speech. Once again they looked at each other and again he saw his reflection in her eyes. The girl had done him no harm but he was a soldier in uniform on the duty to kill, torture even rape anyone on enemy side and she was his legitimate prey. The ground was there to water all the beastly desires buried deep in any man but he was a man with the attitude of a lion. He wanted his prey to be afraid of him, he despised tearing the already a dead body like a vulture does. And there she was standing, eye to eye, showing the courage of a soldier_ like him. He could identify his own self through her eyes. A battle between whether to go ahead or step back went on for a minute and then he turned his face towards the deserted village when suddenly, a strong blow of some hard object was felt on his head, then a second blow and the third and the next moment he was lying on the ground shrieking with pain, not dead but in-empowered.

 Lying plagued , punctured in spirit and bitterly wounded the soldier hissed:
"so you have also tasted human blood the savage blind girl. You have thinned the boundary between you and me". 

The girl opened her ajared lips for the first time to reply
'No territory has ever existed between us, and you! for you are fighting the war with a skilled brain while we are battling with an armored heart. '

A Letter to Allah

When despotic hands were reaching my fluffy cheeks
When needles were being hammered in my woolly skin
When wolf was sniffing closely my blood
And silent stood around all the world
Why even then my roots are set to burn and bare?
When wide Awake Beloved you are there

They turned my streets a cursed city
 My rattles tone-deaf, tear laden and mute
Beheaded my Mother's lofty lullaby
And thwarted with roaring guns my sobbing sighs
 How ghosts still are letting orphans like me frightened and scared?
When wide Awake Beloved you are there

Their serpent's tooth dig deep the crust
of my olive-greened credence in you
They mock over my patience and my faith
They say my letters would go unanswered
To the seventh sky flies no bird
How swiftly they can caricature all my pious prayers?
When wide awake Beloved you are there

 copyrights reserved to Paras Ali /2016

Gladly demolished
into mocking silence of stainless paper
My words have crossed the ocean of 'Self'
They no more yearn
The fake mask of Identity

Paras Ali/2016

Your Departure

Do not mutter a word
Stay Silent, Cease to be a poet
Your rhymes knocks me unconscious by stones
Of those crimson rainbows, my sky does not belong
Hide your eyes with the heals of your hands
Look me not else my wax would melt
In that mould of soapy slippery stars
Which find my droplets mountain hard
Stay Away !Sniff not at my Jars
My chestnut fragrance only i know is here or probably nowhere
March out from the boundaries of my skin
You would paint me with the turquoise shades of sea
And in seconds the maze of my mirrors would churn inside me
Its not the loss
Of your hand built silky curtains around me that hurts
Nor the pangs of waking up at an ungodly hours of night
It's only the mortality of hope
Which fades to exist
with the fear of your departure
Each time you leave
Shutting my doors closed
 the fangs of reality bites me more...

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/ 2016

Identity Crisis

The sun has set
The ivory isle is an abode of bulk of nests 
The silver beads of sand are rushing to the sky
To their home the flock of pigeons are hastening to fly
The cotton candy takes bath at sea
The fairy tale's grumpy wizard is on the verge to sleep
Back to country , back to home
Crumb by crumb drowns the plum sun to its tomb

But the shades in my palate
For my last brush's stroke still waits

Where would my impatient heart go?
During this tidy purple hour dies too my wretched glow
This mass of bones go to pieces after day's long work
Do my soul belong to any road ?

My silhouettes sighing uncertainties resemble dunes of wilderness
Does my cottage reside in the East?
I too carry the cucumber twilight of jolting tides
Do my nest has its roots in the West?

Half winter , half summer
Half damsel , half demon
I am the autumn of the sun
I am the spring of the moon
Am I human? Or entirely no one?

My colour inherit those of universe
the galaxies , the planets and the mighty Earth
In the middle of nowhere my country is everywhere
Where do I belong to?
Where would I go ?
My own childhood streets smell to me foreign and unfathered
Am I a non native citizen of my own world?

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

 What still matters he is a Writer

Is he a doleful lunatic , a promising gentleman or a half-hearted human ? I do not know nor I will dwell in those judgemental inspections of his personality as I have met him in words ----the words underlying his numerous abnormalities, eccentricities and complexities. I somehow know a writer let loose his painful pangs inside the writings but he is different in so many ways I can not count on fingers.His each word is veiled in wires of sanguine suspense , the more I read him the more I loose the grip of atlas of my own thoughts. We have no spacial dimensions in common all I know reading him flowers my petty imaginations. I at times picture him holding a pen in between his plump fingers or other times I paint him setting off his dusty lashes on the pages of Dan brown's thrilling fiction . I so much long to see how words oscillate on his starched paper when stormy breeze sews hails at his pores. I wish one night I explore His wonderland like Alice and sneakily see his eclipsed soul squeezing downpour from the pomegranate sky.  He often calls himself in his poems 'A Man of steel' or a citizen of "Vampire Land" where human corpses are cheaper than ashes but still his syllables carry the enticing flavor of divinity. What keeps his emotions equilibrated I wish I could ever know.

How he extracts meaning from the grey whiffs of wintery frost? I really know not. There is no match between I and him as He sees what I can not see. He thinks desert hides a blue berry walled cataracts while I find desert a valley of cactuses accompanying scuttling snakes , canopied by the gender less sky.
 I shiver with a thought if someday he ever asked me to write on Fall I would take a decade to write only one inappropriate sentence that it is a season voicing funeral's symphony of bare maple tree. In a jiffy he would reject my sentence and instead write back to me heaps of meaningful poetic phrases. He would say Fall's dawn caresses its dusk with golden towel of fog-wet leaves. Probably he would ask me to wear binoculars or keep my eyes squinted to explore parsley-hued and lemon-veined carpet of buds during encroaching summers. When I won't learn a bit he would stop mentoring me at all. God how he takes the weather so personally when thousands of people like me can not? To seek the answer some night my system would blow out. He with ease compares his tidal pull of emotions with shrieking , splashing and jolting waves. Sometimes he calls clouds as a sky filled with snow or at times he tells his readers that stench of puddles is sweeter than the aroma of lavender. If his similes are exported from West , his metaphors are borrowed from East and the final product , to my surprise ,turns out to be an identity less piece of art resembling none but Him. To be honest I often parade with poise my treasured diction to match his aesthetic skills but sweat clutters beads upon my forehead and then i realize even my body has given up. I muster up my courage to write a review of his work but then I coil back burying  my fright beneath the bulks of roaring silence. A strange writer he is ,his words rent my air and grabbing his writings I make sure my ferry veer straight into his sea with a silent prayer that may it stay there forever.                                    

The myth is writer's soul is wedded to a Scorpio which has fangs that punctures heart. People say they are drugged-out, long-haired and Long-shaven and their lackadaisical eyes sunk in the sockets of dark circles reflect their numb and cold hearted spirit. They destroy the virginity of papers by spilling ink and fill to brim bundles of them. Others think they are lonesome creatures who inhale solitude and exhale broken dreams. Even if he is of any kind or he lives inside the inferno of haunting serenade or if he is a member of thundering and hammering heaven I bother least. As what still matters he is a writer.




Copyrights Reserved to #Paras Ali/ 2016