Tales of the Ancient Turtle – Dreaming of God

“I slipped out of my mother’s sleeping arms that summer afternoon and wandered into a backyard full of anacondas, deserts, and a talking turtle who had been waiting centuries to teach me about God.”

Introduction

A tender story capturing the magical world of childhood through the eyes of four-year-old Tipu, who befriends a wise ancient turtle in his backyard. This enchanting tale explores profound spiritual questions through innocent wonder, as the turtle gently guides the child to understand that God can be seen and felt through love, dreams, and the beauty of everyday life. Blending magical realism with philosophical depth, the story celebrates the unique perspective of dreamers who can perceive divine presence in nature’s smallest details - from squirrels and “anaconda” earthworms to warm maternal embraces. A beautiful exploration of how children naturally connect with spirituality and the sacred wisdom found in simple conversations between generations.

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When I was very young, probably four or five, I was friends with a very ancient turtle. He lived in our backyard and talked to me. He told me many stories of times, long past and people, long dead. He was wise, very wise and the mind of a child was no match to his wisdom. But he talked to me because he loved me. And he loved me because I could listen to him for long with my pupils enlarged in astonishment and my brow knitted in curiosity.

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It was a quiet summer afternoon when we first met. My mother was fast asleep, and I slipped out of her arms very quietly. I missed her warm, sweet smell, but outside, the adventures were waiting for me. Adventures have always waited for me.

It must have been a large house. But to me, it looked enormous. There were rainforests hidden deep within the rose bushes, and anacondas wriggled freely in the moist soil. My mother called them earthworms, but I knew they were anacondas. There was a desert in one corner of the backyard - my very own Sahara. My mother thought it was just construction sand, which was left behind by the workers. Adults can be so wrong sometimes. To me, it was a desert, complete with dunes, and when I planted some saplings, there was an oasis too.

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I looked up and peeked at the golden sun from under the shadow of my palm. He was furious with the world but was smiling down at me. His golden rays kissed my cheeks and whispered in my ears, ‘Go ahead, son. The adventure is waiting for you.’

‘But it is so hot and you are ferocious today.’ I replied while readjusting my palm.

‘Not for you. You are a dreamer. For you, I will always be kind.’ The sun crackled a deep-throated laughter.

Reassured, I started looking around for adventure.

Suddenly, a squirrel hiding in the mango tree caught my attention. ‘Come down little one. I want to play with your soft bushy tail.’ I called her down kindly.

‘Always be kind. Kindness goes a long way.’ My grandfather said to me often.

The squirrel came down. I called her Sweetie, and we had always been on friendly terms. She shared her nuts with me, and in return, I brushed her soft tail. It was softer than my father’s shaving brush and was of a most marvelous silver-grey color.

‘Hey, have you heard the news? The turtle has woken up.’ She sat on my shoulder and squeaked into my ear.

‘Huh! Turtle? Which turtle?’ I was surprised.

‘The turtle in the backyard, silly.’ Sweetie informed me while breaking a nut and offering me half of it.

‘There is a turtle in our backyard? Wow!’ It was marvelous news to me.

‘There has always been a turtle in the backyard. But he had been asleep for the last few hundred years or so.’ She chattered on, ‘Go meet him. Pay your respects. He would certainly like that.’

So I ran to the backyard, but I couldn’t see any turtle.

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‘Mr Turtle! Mr Turtle! Where are you?’ I hesitatingly called.

I could hear nothing in response. All was silent, and the brick floor was shimmering in the bright sunlight.

‘Look closely son. He is having his siesta under the rose bushes.’ The sun whispered to me.

‘Where? I cannot see him.’ I desperately searched under the bushes.

The sun laughed quietly and shifted a little. The shadows changed, and I started to see something that was never there before. There was a mottled, hard, and curved shell - all dark green and grey. I poked at it with a small stick, and it moved.

‘Who disturbs me?’ A strange, low voice inquired.

‘I am sorry, sir. I just wanted to meet you and say hi!’ I said very, very respectfully. Turtles were serious business, and I knew my manners.

‘Hmm! Once you grow old, you will realize something very important.’ The turtle said in a tired voice, gradually opening up his small, deep eyes and looking at me. ‘Nothing in this life is more delicious than a siesta in summer afternoons.’

‘I apologize for disturbing your siesta. I am really sorry. You can go back to sleep. We will chat some other time.’ I tried to withdraw.

‘There is something else you will realize once you grow old. No time is better than now.’ He smiled at me kindly. ‘Sit down and let me have a closer look at you.’

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I sat down with turtle under the rose bushes. It was very pleasant there. The dark soil was wet, and the anacondas were squirming happily. I prodded one with my finger. It was all moist and soft.

‘Now don’t do that. He doesn’t like it.’ The turtle admonished me softly. I withdrew my finger. But the turtle was wrong. The anaconda didn’t care.

‘What are you doing outside, at this ungodly hour?’ The turtle asked me gently.

‘What is wrong with this hour? This is the hour of adventure.’ I was confused.

‘You should get out at another time. It is hot.’ He looked up at the bright sun.

‘No time is better than now.’ I repeated his words, and the turtle laughed. It was a deep rattling sound, pleasant to hear. It was a warm laughter coming straight from his belly.

‘My mother is asleep and I am free. There are lions to hunt and desert gypsies to dance with.’ I explained politely after his laughter died down.

‘Aha!’ he grinned. ‘We have a dreamer here.’

‘Is it bad being a dreamer?’ I asked him. My grandfather always said it was better to act than dream.

‘Bad? Absolutely not. Being a dreamer is rather marvelous.’ The turtle winked at me, ‘It is the dreamers who change the world.’

‘Change the world? But how?’ I found his comment very strange.

‘Dreamers can see things that others can’t, and dreamers can sense things that others can’t. Dreamers can hear things that others can’,t and dreamers can do things that others can’t.’ The turtle said slowly.

It was more of a song than a statement. I loved songs. They were simple, yet meaningful.

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‘Can dreamers see God?’ I asked him. It was a very important question, as my father always said that God was invisible.

‘Oh yes! They can. You can.’ The turtle raised an eyebrow.

‘Nope, I cannot see Him. Nobody can.’ I pursed my lips determinedly.

‘Hmm! What do you think God looks like?’ He asked an easy question.

‘He is big - bigger than everything. He must be a giant because He is all mighty and powerful. He moves His finger and the earth moves and the mountains crumble.’ I could go on and on, but the strange expression in the turtle’s eyes halted me.

‘Now who told you that?’ He asked concernedly.

‘My teacher has told me that.’ I said while visualizing my teacher’s deep green eyes and golden hair, which made a halo around her lovely oval face. She was probably my very first crush.

‘But she didn’t say what God looked like. I added the giant part myself.’ I said proudly.

‘Of course, you did because you are a dreamer.’ The turtle laughed again.

‘Can I feel your belly when you laugh?’ I asked the turtle hesitatingly. Touching somebody’s belly was not something I normally did. But I wanted to feel the warm vibrations.

‘Oh yes, you can, my boy. You can do anything that makes you happy.’ He answered with a jolly laugh, and I gently placed my palm against his belly. Those were good vibrations. They traveled up my arm and reached my heart. They tickled my heart, and I laughed too.

‘God is somebody you can easily see and feel.’ The turtle finally said after we both finished laughing.

‘How come?’ I was all ears.

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‘How do you feel about your mother? I mean, what if she gets up when your eyes are closed? Can you feel her leaving?’ He asked.

The turtle had asked a very strange question. I had never thought about it. So I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying in my mother’s embrace. And then the answer came to me, as clear as sunlight kissing a brilliant red rose.

‘I know, I know.’ I answered excitedly. ‘When she gets up and leaves, her warmth and fragrance leave too.’

‘Exactly!’ The turtle nodded with satisfaction. ‘Now tell me, what makes your mother, your mother?’

He saw the confusion dancing in my eyes and so repeated his question. ‘What special quality makes her your mother?’

‘She gave birth to me. I came out of her tummy.’ I was wise, way beyond my years.

‘Yes, true. That is basic. But what quality makes her your mother?’ He asked again.

‘I guess that would be her love. She loves me no matter what. She loves me even when I break a glass. Of course, she is unhappy for a while and frowns, but she still loves me.’ I answered after really thinking hard.

‘Yes!’ the turtle sounded jubilant. ‘Her love makes her your mother. You see the love in her and sense it.’

‘So? What’s that got to do with God?’ I was a bit perplexed.

‘That’s got to do everything with God.’ He said matter-of-factly. ‘He created you, me, your mother, and everything that exists around us. And He loves us all unconditionally.’

‘So my mother is God too?’ I thought I was finally drawing a connection.

‘Hmm! Let’s just say that God is greater than her and different from her.’ The turtle was alert now. He was very alert and was looking at me with eyes sparkling with ancient wisdom.

‘Different how?’ I was mentally ready to start a comparison.

‘Different because, unlike your mother and mine, He runs through us and through everything around us. He makes you sense your mother’s warmth, and He makes you smell her warm fragrance. He makes you move, and He makes you stop. We are alive when He breathes inside us, and we fall dead when He leaves us. He is the sun, the moon, and the stars, and He is the rain forest, the desert, and the earthworms.’

‘Not earthworms. They are anacondas.’ I rudely interrupted him.

‘Yes, I am sorry. He is the Anacondas and not the earthworms.’ The turtle corrected himself with a kind and affectionate smile. ‘And most importantly, God makes you dream. He makes you dream so that you can see Him and sense Him in all His glory and warmth.’

‘Tipu? Tipu? Where are you?’ My mother’s voice echoed in the distance.

‘Oh shit! She is awake.’ I cursed and then suddenly stopped. Cursing was bad, and it was especially bad in front of a grown-up. You could get spanked for that.

‘No problem. You can always curse in front of me.’ The turtle winked at me knowingly.

‘Will I see you again?’ I asked while brushing off the seat of my shorts.

‘Oh yes. I will always be here. We will talk more and then some more. We will keep on talking till it is your time to move on.’ The turtle said while settling back down comfortably in the moist soil.

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‘Hey, there you are. How many times have I told you not to play outside at this hour?’ My mother asked with a frown.

I ran to her and hugged her legs. She smiled and hugged me back. We started walking towards the cool shade under the verandah. I looked back and waved at the turtle. I could not see him because the sun had shifted again. But I was sure he could see me.

‘Who are you waving at?’ My mother looked back but couldn’t see anybody.

‘I made a new friend today. I was waving at him.’ I smiled at her.

‘A new friend? Who is he?’ She sounded a bit worried.

‘A turtle!’ I happily informed her.

‘A turtle?’ She looked surprised for a moment. But then she bent down and kissed my sweaty forehead. ‘You are a dreamer, my son. You will always be a dreamer.’ She had seen the happiness in my eyes, and she was happy that I was happy. I was happy because I was a dreamer and I could see God.

Beyond the Edge of Storm

Introduction

A powerful metaphorical poem that maps the spiritual journey from isolation and struggle toward enlightenment and self-understanding. Through vivid imagery of storms, hidden doors, and eternal knowledge, this inspirational verse explores the transformative path beyond life’s difficulties. The poem presents a progressive journey through four stages: confronting loneliness, facing life’s storms, seeking hidden wisdom, and ultimately finding pure understanding and self-realization.

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In the present, in this very instance;

a white shell of sad and lonely existence

Within this very shell, your soul is alive;

sticking to life with strength and persistence

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Beyond your hearing, beyond your sight;

there is a storm waiting – it’s flashes so bright

Within that storm, a quest is hidden;

a journey demanding true strength and might

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Beyond that storm, beyond its great shadow;

there is a silent door in the high wall of woe

Behind that door, there is eternal knowledge;

a moth worshipping fire, dancing to and fro

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Beyond that knowledge, beyond its very lure;

lies the true understanding, white and pure

Within that understanding, within its warm glow;

you will find yourself, it’s wisdom for sure

The Father, the Dragon, and the Little Man

Introduction

A touching slice-of-life narrative capturing the playful power dynamics between a father and his two children during their daily school routine. Through a series of humorous “rounds” - from hair-tying battles to music preferences and shaving debates - this warm family story explores the tender push-and-pull of parent-child relationships. The tale beautifully illustrates how love manifests in everyday moments, revealing that in the gentle war between parents and children, everyone ultimately wins through understanding and affection. A relatable portrayal of modern parenting that celebrates the small victories and defeats that define family life, ending with the profound realization that parental love transcends all daily conflicts.

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ROUND - 1: Monday, 7:30 AM

‘Please tie your hair.’ I politely request my teenage daughter, while unlocking the car.

‘Why?’ She asks defiantly.

‘Because your hair looks shabby.’ I comment, trying my best not to get angry.

‘Baba is right, you know?’ My son tries to interfere, but one look from his elder sister is enough to silence his efforts.

‘I will tie my hair later!’ She informs me nonchalantly.

‘You will tie your hair now!’ I muster up the strict disciplinarian hiding somewhere deep inside me and pass the order.

She stares at me, and I return the favor. The war of stares begins. We keep on staring at each other. I win. The Dragon ties her hair, while the Little Man smiles with satisfaction.

The Father has won the first round. I am quite proud of myself.

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ROUND - 2: Monday, 7:35 AM

‘Baba?’ The Dragon sitting beside me growls.

‘Yeah, my love?’ I sense lightning crackling in the belly of invisible storm clouds.

‘Why haven’t you shaved?’ There is no fire yet, but the Dragon is all ready.

I look at her from the corner of my left eye. She has one eyebrow cocked. It is a sign of danger. It is almost always a sign of danger, but this time I choose to ignore it. Fatal mistake!

‘I want to grow a van dyke.’ I declare and caress an imaginary growth on my chin. ‘I think it will suit my persona.’

‘I concur.’ The Little Man announces from the backseat.

‘Please shave today. A bear won’t suit you.’ Her voice carries a deadly finality.

‘I am an independent person. I believe a van dyke would suit me. I am keeping one.’ I desperately fight for my independence and dignity.

‘You are also my father. I have an image to take care of. I don’t want you to look like a mullah. You will shave it today.’ The Dragon is beginning to sound more and more like her mother.

‘I will certainly not. I will keep a van dyke. I will also get one ear pierced and wear a gold ring like a pirate.’ I announce.

I hear snickering. I look in the rearview mirror. The Little Man is trying to hide his mouth with his hand. He knows what is happening, and he knows what’ll be the outcome. He is wise beyond his years.

‘I want to see you shaved once you come to pick us up in the afternoon.’ The Dragon finally breathes fire.

‘Okay.’ I admit defeat meekly. I am afraid of the fire.

The Father has lost the second round.

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ROUND - 3: Monday, 7:45 AM

We are on the way to school, and the Dragon is watching me closely. I can feel the heat scalding my left cheek. I ignore it and keep on nodding my head.

‘Please change the song and stop playing an imaginary electric guitar on the steering.’ She requests with cold politeness.

‘I need my morning dose of Pink Floyd.’ I keep on strumming the guitar.

‘I love Pink Floyd too.’ The Little Man announces.

‘I need my morning dose of Justin Bieber.’ She changes the song and then turns and addresses her brother, ‘You are too young to love Pink Floyd.’

I hate Justin Bieber, but I am helpless. I roll down the window as a protest.

‘What are you doing? It’s cold. Roll it back up, please.’ She requests again.

‘I need to throw up. I am allergic to Bieber.’ I announce victoriously.

The Dragon keeps on staring at my foolish and exaggerated gestures of gagging and throwing up, while the Little Man offers no support. After a while, I realize the futility of my actions. I smile sheepishly and roll the window back up.

The Father has lost the third round, too. I admit my defeat graciously.

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We have reached their school. I kiss their heads, and they both get down and disappear into the school gate.

I turn the car and take a deep breath. The car is filled with their young, vibrant smells. It is the smell of menthol from their toothpastes. It is the smell of lemon from their bath sponges. And it is the smell of their school books and stationery.

I inhale their marvelous smells and cherish them. I am already starting to miss their absence.

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The day is over soon. It is time to pick up the Dragon and the Little Man from school.

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‘Hello!’ I greet them both with a smile.

‘Hello baba!’ The Dragon is cheerful, and it makes me happy.

‘Hey!’ My son waves at me casually, trying to act all adult. It makes me happy, too.

The car is flooded with their smells again. I inhale their smells and cherish them. These are the smells of their childhood, and I want to save them somewhere.

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ROUND - 4: Monday, 2:30 PM

‘By the way, you are late again!’ The Dragon launches an accusation. She is right. I am late.

‘Yeah, I know. Please accept my heartiest apologies. I got busy.’ I know when I am wrong.

‘No, you forgot because you are growing old.’ She smiles at me lovingly and then examines my head. ‘You have got some white hair. Why don’t you dye your hair?’

‘I don’t think you are old.’ The Little Man tries to support me. I look back and acknowledge his bravery with a smile.

‘I don’t want to dye them. White hair has a certain character……….’ I prepare myself for a mildly philosophical lecture, but she has already lost interest. I swallow the lecture.

The Father has lost this round.

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ROUND - 5: Monday, 2:35 PM

‘Baba?’ The Little Man from the rear seat suddenly pokes his bushy head in between the two front seats.

‘Yes, sir!’ I run my fingers through his coarse hair.

‘I scored ten marks in the science quiz today.’ He declares proudly.

‘Ten out of what?’ I inquire.

‘Ten out of ten.’ He chews his words deliberately.

‘Why not eleven?’ I am curious.

‘Because you cannot get eleven out of ten.’ He sure has a point there.

‘You can if you have perfect handwriting. The teacher can always give you one extra mark.’ I insist.

He gives me an exasperated look. He is getting bored with my dry humor. He tries to pull back his head, but I grab hold of it.

‘I am proud of you, buddy.’ I kiss his head.

‘I am not proud of you at all.’ The Dragon says cruelly. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘It is a big deal.’ I look at her sternly. ‘I believe it is a big deal and I believe we should all be proud of him.’

The Dragon doesn’t respond. The Father has won this round.

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ROUND - 6: Monday, 2:45 PM

‘I am changing the song. You know it very well that I don’t like these teenage singers.’ I inform the Dragon in advance and change the song.

There is an audible and desperate grunt from the back.

‘What?’ I peer into the rearview mirror and look at the Little Man.

‘It is Selena Gomez.’ He informs me.

‘Who is she? Perhaps, a relative of ours?’ I inquire sarcastically.

‘He has a crush on her.’ The Dragon points at her brother and adds to my knowledge.

I do not speak for a while. Then I change the song back to Ms. Gomez.

‘Why? I thought you didn’t like teenage singers.’ The Dragon is surprised.

‘My son has good taste.’ I don’t look back. I know the Little Man is blushing, and I do not want to add to his discomfort.

The Little Man has won this round.

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We reach home. The day passes quickly. They have their lunch and go for a nap. Their tutor comes, and a marathon starts.

It’s nighttime. They have their dinner and go for some more study. They have my sympathies.

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ROUND - 7: Tuesday, 12:00 AM

I softly open their bedroom door and peek inside. They are both asleep - the fiery Dragon and the proud Little Man. I tiptoe to their side.

The Little Man is dreaming a bad dream. He is grimacing, and his hands are shaking. I bend down and kiss his cheek. I correct his blanket. He senses my presence even from across the threshold of sleep. The bad dream recedes. His face relaxes and grows peaceful.

I look at the Dragon and her flaring nostrils. Her beautiful, luscious hair covers her face. I run my fingers through her hair and rearrange them. She murmurs something. I bend down and kiss her brow. Her lips move, and a small smile appears on her sleeping face. She, too, is somehow aware of my presence.

We have all won this round.

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In fact, when I look back, I have won all the rounds today. I won all the rounds every day. I won when they submit to my will, and I also won when I submit to theirs. They don’t realize this. But they will when they have children of their own. They will learn that there is never a war between parents and children. There is always love.

The King Who Wears a Crown of Frost

Introduction

A haunting contemplative poem exploring the universal human experience of loss and its profound impact on our existence. Through vivid imagery of a mythical King who rules over all lost things from his frost-crowned throne, this introspective piece examines how loss shapes identity and the hidden wisdom that emerges from pain. The poem delves into existential questions about where lost loves, dreams, and parts of ourselves go, creating a powerful metaphor of an island kingdom built from collective human grief. A thought-provoking exploration of sorrow’s transformative power and the bitter fruit of understanding that grows from life’s inevitable losses.

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So many things are lost, almost every day;

a child may lose a toy, or an adult, his heart

We may misplace ourselves if we go astray;

if our choices in love are not very smart

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We lose what we love, what we hold dear;

we lose what we hate, what we so despise

No criteria - we may lose a smile or a tear;

we may lose our madness or what makes us wise

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We lose so much; our lives are tainted by loss;

wretched beings with their backs all stooped

We lose so much, we are defined by our loss;

garlands of failure, our tragedies all looped

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Where do all these lost things go, once gone?

This is the very thought that makes me curious

Do they cease to exist beyond their last dawn?

Do they become shadows, silent yet furious?

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Perhaps there is a dark island, far, far away;

filled with deep sorrow, it is eternally cursed

A sea of knowledge, all silent and grey;

pulsing with regret, an unquenched thirst

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On that island, there is a colossal hall of grief;

therein weeps a King, wearing his crown of frost

His legacy is so vast, and yet he fears no thief;

his, is the treasure of all that has ever been lost

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He laments not the loss, yet his tears are true;

he mourns the tragedy of loss, dying in vain

Loss is a tree that bears fruit, if only we knew;

the fruit of wisdom, rotten and bitter with pain

The Prophet and the Devil

Introduction

A haunting narrative poem exploring the eternal struggle between light and darkness within the human soul. This introspective piece delves into themes of moral duality, spiritual conflict, and the coexistence of prophet and devil in one person. Through vivid imagery of pain, redemption, and self-reflection, the poem examines how opposing forces of kindness and temptation shape our existence. Perfect for readers seeking deep philosophical poetry about human nature, internal battles, and the complex relationship between good and evil that defines the human experience.


Constantly walking down a dark alley of pain,

a cold path, leading to no loss and no real gain

He walks alone; he has always been walking alone,

each step is an agony, but he doesn’t groan or moan


He stops for a moment to take a tired breath;

thinking of his sad existence and a pitiful death

He sees a man sitting and leaning forward,

he doesn’t move, his posture so awkward


Brains blown out, there is silence in the hall,

no commotion, just blood splashed on the wall

His dead eyes, motionless, clouded and sallow,

that man is him, a life so deep and a death so shallow


Who were you really? He asks the dead man,

What did you really want? What was your clan?

Pulls onto his own hair matted with blood and brain,

he sees himself smile, though in actual he is slain


I was the product of imagination, the darkest of them all,

pain, sorrow, and suffering, an amalgamation of them all

Slowly cooked and roasted upon the fire of circumstances,

I took every risk and I availed all the chances


I hung myself all through my life, on the cross of desire,

my guilt and my regrets, lighting a damn big fire

My body laughed so hard, while my soul slowly bled,

the nails of remorse drawing blood, dark and red


I wore the crown of pleasure, dancing the dance of senses,

each conquest was glory, no qualms, no mending fences

But it was a crown of thorns, my soul writhed in pain,

and on the cross of desire, my character was finally slain


I was a prophet, I was the devil, the contrast burnt so bright,

the devil on the left always, and the prophet on the right

Kindness was the prophet’s domain; he ruled it so well,

sensuality was the devil’s game; he played it in hell


The prophet held hands and fanned the flames of life,

the devil played his flute and sharpened his sinful knife

The prophet bowed in humility, acknowledging his bounds,

the devil laughed in shadows and made his daily rounds


They were opposite in nature, but they shared a core,

crying over a broken heart, weeping for a whore

But when tired of crying, they both walked the earth,

in search of some joy, in search of some mirth


The devil broke some hearts, the prophet mended souls,

the devil stole some dreams, the prophet filled some holes

The devil caused some chaos, the prophet preached some order,

but the prophet stayed behind, while the devil crossed the border


Then they both sat together and wept and cried some more,

the prophet on his throne and the devil on the floor

The prophet told the devil that they had different fates,

the devil smiled and offered, ‘No, we are soul mates’


The dead fell silent and chose to speak no more,

he only thought in silence, shaken to the core

There was a dichotomy, though he always knew,

that it was no stark, he had no clue


He was two, not one, that was the only fact,

the prophet and the devil, it was a strange pact

He looked ahead and started to walk again,

the prophet and the devil, in the dark alley of pain