Children of Autumn (A Mini Opera)
The night is silent and Gamayun sits atop a lonely rock, looking down on the city of lights. A gentle breeze is blowing from the North-East, carrying faint shades of some long-lost and ancient fragrance. Then suddenly she senses a presence – there is someone beckoning her attention from the shadows. She raises her hand and commands:
The Autumn Moon
I feel as if I am a Sylph, a poetic fantasy
the autumn moon, simple and pure ecstasy
I roam the night air and float
so very near, yet remote
I watch all and feel all;
feelings – either big or small
I watch all and feel all;
but I am not a part of this at all
The Custodian of Unfulfilled Dreams
A kingdom where broken dreams go to die—and a king who refuses to abandon them.
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Far away from all this filth and all this stinking mold,
there is a secret and silent realm of unfulfilled dreams
The realm is colorless, neither silver nor purple nor gold,
no laughter or singing, just a chaos of cries and screams
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Each dream, once it’s shattered, and in pain it cries,
it enters the realm, hearing some command unspoken
The horn of time does not blow; it is silent and so wise,
as the dreams lay trampled, crying and utterly broken
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There he sits at the gate, the old and tattered King,
the sad custodian of dreams, he protects and lovingly guards
He has neither a throne, nor a seal, nor a royal ring,
he wears only a crown of thorns and sharp glass shards
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The dreams are his children, a few are even his very own,
he cradles their delicate heads and lovingly treats their sores
Some dreams have broken wings, and some have never flown,
yet he loves them all, whether they are his own, mine, or yours
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The King has tears in his eyes; he cries over the wounded dreams,
he knows they are going to finally die, his efforts are all in vain
The dreams whimper as life bleeds out, in rivulets and in streams,
the King knows they are the last drops of a rare desert rain
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Each dream, when it breathes its very last and silently dies,
he gently kisses its dead eyes, singing the last lullaby
The King is sad, oh, he is so very sad, but still he desperately tries,
caring for dreams, without asking ‘to what end’ or even a ‘why’
Depression and Me – Till Death do us Part
A marriage vow written in shadows: depression doesn’t ever leave, it keeps on waiting in silence.
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All the faceless monsters lurking under your bed,
and grey smoky ghosts, hiding quietly in the shed
They are still alive, and though very much well fed,
their appetites grow stronger, smelling your dread
Oh, you were so mistaken, and you were so wrong,
they are still here, and they are still very strong
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You thought they had gone and had finally left,
leaving you for once alone, happy, and not bereft
Letting you grow freely to move either East or West,
was something so obvious, but you were so obsessed
Oh you were damn crazy, and stupid to think so,
it is not over yet, the dark misery and the grey woe
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Yes, they look different and may have new faces,
their new but scalding words leave new traces
Their horror remains a fact, and it has a rational basis;
you are an idiot; you were never in their good graces
Oh, you are confused and bewildered by this shit?
No worries, you may run, but you will again be hit
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Yes, you will forever run and hide from them in vain,
but you will meet them always, again and again
There might be a brief respite, and maybe a little gain,
but then will come suffering, and definitely more pain
Oh, you will scream, and torture yourself to death;
you will suffer and burn till your very last breath
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But listen, my friend, and listen to me with care;
they are of your own making, so it’s only fair
They might frighten you, and they might even scare,
but sensibility and you? It has always been very rare
Oh, you may protest, and you may angrily differ;
you are their creator, though this may sound bitter
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The ghosts and monsters will forever stay with you;
the shadows, the dark, and the legion of demons, too
You will keep on feeding and rearing them, it’s true;
but they will keep on torturing and tormenting you
Oh, you may try, or you may find your hands tightly tied,
but good fortune is a horse, you will never ever ride
Shehryar khawar 