The Free

You are free,

On your way, with chains,

That makes you walk the right.

In your room, with darkness,

That hounds you follow the light.

You are free,

With rags on back of your skin,

That’s more of function than eminence.

With friends and with kin,

Which is love in dreadful disguise.

You are free,

On the roads of religion than science,

And in the cages of faith than of hope.

With our feathers tied up with threads,

Of custom, of democracy and dope.

You are free.

You are free.

As long as you are a slave,

Every inch of hour you live.  

-Aroon Che.

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The Silence

What makes the rustle of leaves, 
So cynic in the middle of nowhere ? 
What makes the roar of the waters, 
Tremble our little boat back to shore? 
What makes the howl of wolves, 
Fill these city streets with dire? 
What makes the rattling of windows, 
Turn the rooms into dreams of poor? 
What makes the hissing of whispers, 
Poison these truths and free air? 
It is this silence we witness, 
In the minds of men with power. 
It is this silence, 
We, in times of voice, are ready to wear. 
It is this silence, 
But nothing else.

-Aroon Che

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The Way

No its not that way, 
Its not the way you ought to be. 
You can be the questions that lay, 
Hurdles on the roads of crime. 
You can the answers that file, 
And blow life into the rocks of time. 
You can be the mirrors, 
To every face thats searching for dirt. 
You can be the waters, 
In every hand trying to clean them neat. 
You can be the heroes, 
Of peace at the borders of this land. 
You can be the linctus, 
To the traitor, here in every mind. 
No its not the way, 
Its not the way you ought to be. 
Silent and alone with nothing to say, 
Brimful but nothing to give. 
You pray to these idols, 
Not for the needy but for self. 
You stay good to friends, 
With fear but not with love. 
Why do you shrink, 
When you have strength to rise big? 
Why do you sink, 
When you can float like a helping log? 
Why do you turn blind to light, 
When you are expected to be a candle? 
Why do you paint your face with a doubt, 
When you asked to typify as an answer? 
No its not that way, 
Its not the way you ought to be. 
You can be, 
The clock that blends the wine. 
You can be, 
The mocking bird thats never gone.

-Aroon Che

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The Growing Strong

The flying kites, 

With no hands, 

On their threads. 

The falling bricks, 

Opening the walls, 

That divide the ways. 

The molding hands, 

Making pots, 

With mud thats wise. 

The long roads, 

To the paradise, 

Blended with stone and thorns. 

The sun and skies, 

The moon and the stars, 

And this nature with colors. 

The never no hands, 

And the never sad faces, 

With the never dying eyes. 

These, make my dream, 

Everyday, everynight, 

Whirling the waters hard to swim. 

Where can I, at mercy of gods, 

Find a freedom like those kites? 

Where can I, in these lost streets, 

 Find the falling bricks of discriminations? 

How can I, amidst all this ignorance, 

 Reach to a teacher with molding classes? 

Where can I, in these rotten cities, 

Get on the roads that demand real shoes? 

How can I, with these synthetic skins, 

Feel the touch of real love thats a bliss? 

How can I, painted with masks, 

Find my own face and of my brothers? 

These, make my dream and all, 

 Everyday, everynight, 

Growing strong with every fall.

-Aroon Che

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The Wake Up

"And when those distant and wan cries of a slum boy, 
 Judder and ripple the old wine in my hands, 
And when that haze from some orphan pyre, 
Tint the windows of my glossy Royce, 
I got this valiant fear, little but perilous,
I got this wake up dream, fair but vigil, 
I got this slaying oomph, that made inch but do roads,
I got myself, back from the obit, ,back from unreal. "

-Aroon Che

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