The city walls are mine...

Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem 

Graffiti etched on the city walls,

Scream for peace,

And promises of faith,

And slogans of hatred,

And of holy commandments.

Spill out the ugliness of the people,

And dig into the spiritual dearth,

And claw at stark reality,

And shame the peace lover,

And soothe the wanderer.

The city walls are scriptures,

Of an unholy, blasphemous people,

And of absent minded drug addicts,

And of cluttered minds.

The city walls are canvases,

To filth and to wonder,

And to lost souls,

And to the grief stricken,

And to the artistic intellectual.

The city walls tell stories,

And break taboos,

And enlighten and clutter,
And welcome the stranger.
Journey of the soul 
Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem
Swirls of colour,

Unite the universe;

Separate identities;

Stir emotions.

My head is home

To balls of colour.

They fill me up.

They blend with my soul .

The balls roll and bounce,

The colours,

threaten to spill.

Clouds of colour rise,

Warm the soul,

Cool my mind.

They collide and settle.

The final dust rises,

Makes me one,

With the universe.

Colours fill my sleep,

The eternal sleep.

To all that could be new...

Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem

Fireworks and loud cheers; Frosted breath, excited laughter. There is dance and merriment; Froth and bubbles; Promises and kisses; Warm embraces, silent gazes. Lots to leave behind; Bundles to take forward. Dreams and hopes soar; Aspirations take a deep breath, begin anew.

Here’s to all that’s going to be new, Heart break and happiness, Travel and upheaval, Peace, entirely sans war, Music and tears, Comfortable days and rough nights, Treading on beaten paths, In efforts to find unbeaten ones.  Here’s to moving on, and to  carrying ourselves forward. 


bismillahir rahman irraheem

when innocence is crushed and left mangled,
a refugee is made.
when bombs indicate form of life,
a refugee is made.
when smoke rises from fires not chimneys,
a refugee is made.
when home is within bomb shelters,
refugees are made.
when sleeplessness and hunger infest children,
a refugee is made.
when we sleep while they cry,
a refugee is made.
when we celebrate life and they delight in mere survival,
a refugee is made.
when we shake our heads in mortification,
and they stand firm in the face of adversity.
when we shed tears in our pillows,
and they straighten their backs to toil on grim faced.
when our sleep is fitful out of fear,
and they only rest when laid to do so.
that.... that is when we make a refugee!



Solitude, a lonely word? 
Solitude is time with the waves crashing aginst the shore;
it is the time I get with chirping birds,
and glittering stars, and sunshine, and grass... it is when I am with my Self!
I have my thoughts, and my feelings; solitude is really me surrounded... 
enveloped... swathed in joy... cocooned in warmth... immersed in the Self!


bismillahir rahmanir raheem

the fluttering heart- a compass,
the flighty soul- a dervish.
the world, a sea,
rising, falling, swallowing.
the whirling dervish,
builds storms;
angers birds;
upsets life.
the compass, 
wavers and struggles.
struggles to find a path,
a direction,
in the endless ocean.
fate plays its hand.
comes sunshine and calm.
the dervish rests.
fate looks on and smiles.
Harsh Realities

Life is about withering away...
At an undecided pace...
We are but dandelions at the mercy of the winds...