Sunday, March 28, 2010

The dog and the horse

The dog argued with the horse
who was important the most.

“Look at you carry log”
“Is this work?” said the dog
“You’re such a useless beast
If tomorrow you’re gone,
I won’t miss you the least!”

“All day you plow
slowly walk with the mule,
and at nights you just sleep.
Call it work?
What a bull!”

“Look at me,” said the dog,
“I am always alert.
In the day I guard fields
and the house in the night
Never sleep, never rest
and I’m always on guard.
That’s real job, such a stress
I’m working so hard!”

“It’s all true,” said the horse,
“I would never dismiss,
You’re so brave, you work hard,
and you’re so good at this.

But my friend, stop and think
if it were not for my act,
You’d have nothing to guard
and this it as fact.”

A free interpretation of a Aesop's fable with the same name

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Old habits die hard

(image by lonelypierot)

What an amazing place he chose for their first date, she can barely hear her thoughts rising above the thumping of her heartbeat. With sweaty palms she dials his number from her hiding place behind the heavy curtain; the number she she now knows by heart. Not that it’s her first blind date of course; not at all. But this time she has no doubt that he is The One. 

For months they've been talking. She can see him as a child climbing trees; as an adolescence kissing his first love; as a restless adult who could never fulfill his hidden passions. She can still feel her curled sobbing body under the blanket, when her choking words told him her secret – the words she never thought she'd utter. She also remembers lying in bed for, with the telephone in one hand, laughing for hours. Even now she can barely stand when thinking of the near violent shaking or her body releasing her desire when he played with her mind, release that nobody in flesh has ever lead her to. There was nothing she didn’t know about him. Nothing he didn’t know about her. Nothing but one. 

She had always fallen for looks, always for the wrong man, so this time she insisted their looks would remain secret, and he accepted. Until today it was their only secret. But from the moment they agreed on this meeting, she could only think of their lips meeting; of their first touch. Today she’ll see him for the first time. 

She pushes the wrong button, and with trembling fingers dials again. The sound of a phone ringing in the tranquil restaurant cannot be mistaken. It’s her favorite melody, the one she taught him to love. In the shimmering candle light a man lifts the phone to his face. Hello he says with a gentle smile. But he is not the man in her mind; not the man she saw their lips touching; not the man who brought her all the pleasure, the man who made her laugh. He is not the man who, for the first time, will explore her body with his. On her way out she knows she’ll never speak with him again. She knows that it’ll be the man who sent her the photos she’ll be meeting next. He will not be the man she wants, but the man she responds to, whose looks pushes her buttons. Next time, it will be the wrong man again.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

I feared

I feared failure
Until I realized that if I don’t try I don’t fail.

I feared the truth
Until I learnt that I can’t tell it from a lie.

I feared people's opinions
But now I know that most people don’t think.

I feared ridicule
But I was ridiculous with my fear.

I feared rejection
Until no one was left to reject me.

I feared love
But it was just an illusion.

I feared being alone
Until then I discovered porn
Thank God for the internet.

I feared pain
But now I learnt to enjoy it.

I feared my destiny
Until it dawned on me that I,
Just like everyone else,
Know my future from the beginning.

There is nothing I fear any more.

Friday, March 19, 2010


Words I had not heard for years
Shuttered the latch
And Flooded me with images I had not seen
Feelings I had not felt
Places I could not remember
And ghosts long gone.

Will the flood drain?
Will the gates ever shut?

Sunday, March 14, 2010


Tomorrow, Inshallah
we should be grateful that tomorrow came at all, 
because it’s not us who make it be. 
But we forget.

Tomorrow, Inshallah 
we’ll play again on the stage. 
A stage we did not make. 
But we forget.

Karma, fate, Inshallah. 
We took their words but left their minds behind
So we can forget.

Privileged to forget, 
haughty amoebas in a drop of water taking over the world. 
Tomorrow they’ll play again. 

Friday, March 12, 2010

Lite Love

Not the common beauty that sells magazines, but whenever she floats by, her scent awakens dreams of forgotten legends. No man can resist turning his head for a look of admiration.  If you are among the lucky with whom she exchanged some words, you will not remember them, but only your own yearning to see her smiling at you, for a flash of fantasy that fades into a short sigh of realization that she is beyond your reach.

Yet, nearly every night you’ll find her in the corner pub on her own. Only when she drinks can she care to hear those whose drinking instilled confidence in their hearts to approach her. Only when she drinks can she find them alluring for a night of lonely passion, from which she hopes to wake up on her own. She never does.

A woman of talent and beauty; tonight you will find her in the little pub, hoping that this will be her last night. 

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Beginning and end

This masterpiece is not mine. It's T. S. Eliot's - a true genius. I just couldn't resist including it in my blog

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Desert Rain

It’s a good day for the little teashop owners, who provide the only shelter from the downpour. Impassable puddles, filled directly from a low grey sky, can only be crossed by the green carriages pulled by the old tired horses. Teenage motorcyclists, who dare each other to cross the deep dark puddles, yield angry incomprehensible words and fist waving from the occasional passerby splashed with the brown murky mud.

It’s a bad day for those whose livelihood depends on visitors: the snake charmers with their black cobras and vipers, crawled back to their baskets; the acrobats performing aerial somersaults in waitress-like white uniforms; the story tellers, teeth pullers and fortune tellers. None of them will make ends meet today. Yet, the air is filled with smiles, drumming music and excited chats. 

When did they last see rain? 

It’s only the visitors, many of whom came to escape from the grayness of their own places, who complain to each other while sipping slowly their mint tea served in minute glasses. Occasionally they would stand up and move to the next teashop to have a new view of the rain, hoping for something to happen; anything at all that will break the routine of the day, and give them the touch of excitement they crave so much.

Sunday, March 7, 2010


The language I can’t remember hearing
The foods I don’t remember eating
Are all around me. 

No, please don’t.
I beg you.
I will do as you say.
As if the black bruises
Have never left me.