Lot but won

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The Knot

" I still remember that day, it took a lot of me, to translate a pain into this sketch. I dont know why I did this. But then, its real. Its everywhere, here and there. My imagination, for some bad reasons, is real."
-Aroon Che

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Music

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Guild

Those loops in your sense, 

Woven by the hands of your guild , 

 With the finest threads of ignorance, 

Simply makes you little less to a god.

-Aroon Che

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The Inception

Inception is a beginning. A beginning is a thought. A thought is a product of your wisdom. Wisdom is the result of your understanding. Your understanding is your exposure. Your exposure is your living. Your living is your every moment, accountable and idle. And then it’s again an inception. A beginning begins a beginning. And this beginning begins another beginning. So it’s all a beginning after a beginning, a start after a start. A level in a level is what we are in and as a result of this we grow into a thorny reference book. And how far you are into these kinds of things which implicate you to some kind of unreal realities is what defines your wisdom. An unreal reality is which appears to be moving, but in real it is not. Just look outside your window or around now and what do you see? Beautiful scenery, children playing and maybe it is sunny or may be raining. You will find a small score or smears in everything you see from these kinds of tranquil observations. You feel like to take back yourself to some of your memorable histories hiding behind those scores or smears, i mean, i am using the word smear to point out the referable bookmarks we usually store to go back and live with our own times, mostly the best times. 

Subconscious mind is your archive here. It will take you back so swiftly if you allow, to the memories, the memories you like to share or live in them forever. It is quite sensible to say that we don’t forget these memories, good and bad ,as easy as we appear to or we promise to do so. We have them planted deep inside our scaly minds. The emotional fertility of our mind makes them stay alive for years. We bring these planted nurseries of memories to the present world, trying to repair them, hoping to modify them or in the best cases, to enhance them to their best forms. But it never to be forgotten that any kind of past is made of a stone that doesn’t obey chiselling. It is meant to be reused the way it is. And we try to ignore this aspect. Modification has no meaning here, in a subconscious memory. The levels down there are not frozen but open for visits. You can go down to your memories and live in/with them the way you want. You can talk to everyone you see there the same way you spoke to them earlier, or even better. The least you can do is to roam around and the worst you can do is to try to change it. Expectations and corrections add here. Surprisingly none of these attempts work well, because the levels aren’t frozen, but the subjects and their limitations are. How you live in there is as identical as a visiting a museum, where you can talk to things, express your love to them but never can expect them back to be the same. A museum is storage of memories, memories that won’t change forever. You are just a visitor. You shall come and go. But all those communications you do with these museum things can be possibly the result of what you wanted to create in the present level which begins to take in effect the moment you step out of the museum. The memories remain same, sometimes rejuvenated. Resurrection begins. 

While you deeply are involved in looking your inside, some mistakes what you found there happens to get repeated in your present level. We alert ourselves to rectify them. We shuttle between these two levels, past and present to troubleshoot the happenings. Sometimes mistakes take up to new shapes. You begin to wonder how to relate them to your previous one and try to derive coherence. Most of the time is lost in assuming it to be old ones and you end up committing a new one. This is spread to your daily routine. You try to educate others, talk to them about your past, through different media. Writers do it more often. We read their mistakes through their stories and get implanted with a subconscious memory, which might, sometimes, entirely change the reader’s life. I have seen people talking about role models and inspiring stories. These role models who can be your father or a film star communicates their past with you, which though you weren’t part of it ,becomes your subjective past. Subjective past or memories begin at home. Your mom or dad screwing you up to be what they wanted you to be like, is one good example. Their subconscious memory, reflexes begins to affect your present life, in a way like decision making or aims. It is just another beginning. Your father or mother or teacher or friends or anyone to whom you listen to creates a memory that can haunt you for your life, because you are being observed through a window of the past, others’ past. This is something that is unavoidable. We technically die here ending up in someone else unconstructed dream, the limbo I mean what we unknowingly become a citizen of. You grow old with those planted ideas assuming that its your only fate. I know friends who live in the limbo, growing sick and helpless, just because they followed blindly others’ dream. They don’t know the exit of the maze they are in. Change comes progressively as you meet someone who can make you remind all your mistakes and when you look up to see the exit, you will know you are out of limbo and into the reality. You will begin to pass on your lessons to others. And that is how things are incepted into others’ mind. You will begin to resurrect your lifestyle, trying to undo the reality in unreality. Reality in unreality is something like the story of the fire. To upgrade this it is just an assumed reality in an unexpected reality. It is sometimes the helpless situation that takes up the unexpected reality’s position. But the assumed reality stay fit to be lived as long as you march forward in your unreal times. Time fails to mention you when it comes out. It only teaches you lessons that you should prefer to make it an open source to others because you must have started this unreality expedition for your reality on basis of one such open sources. And such open sources are more important and are the only unbiased guides. This leads you to go heights you dream of. You can be what you wanted to be even when you are not young enough for it. You can start a new level or you can join already created levels to help them modify into a better form. 

So ambition never dies. It is just inherited to others. Like in a case of a man who wanted a light in his dark cave passed his desire to his generations. It went on to live like an assumed reality until it found happening in the hands of Edison. And until then it is just unexpected reality. Unexpected reality gives no other choice other than to accept it. It is we you have to step on this dirt to jump to higher levels of our assumed reality. And if you didn’t complete this jump, you better give a chance to someone in the next levels to continue your leap. And what ever you see through your window will be as beautiful as a unit of arranged flower pots. As calm as a retired life. You are not there in the act, even when your reality is happening. That is what a true meaning of life and living all about. It makes your idea a legend. Feel like to start one such inception? You are already in one.

-Aroon Che

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The Deception

 We wake up from our dreams in night and that moment is remembered. We wake up and get down from our beds laid in cellular rooms with no light to see and no space to move. We are never hungry for some reason and all we could sense is the sounds outside. People talking, fighting , loving, waging wars , backbiting and blessing. We somehow find a walk out of the beds to the doors only to open it to find a busy corridor, filled with filth and people of our kind. We look back to see our rooms and then back to corridor. For some reason or instinct , we find the rooms are noisy though empty and the corridor silent though filled with everything. We walk out of our rooms into the corridor , naked and innocent, happy and curious. People busy till then, began to greet us and make friends. Some give food. Some give clothes. Some give money. Some give knowledge. And we join the corridor , getting busy and dirty. Slowly we are lost in the crowd, handful of money and lust. We begin to grow old, old enough to grow mad. Running in the corridor after nothing, for years and years. We form groups, we make enemies, we wage wars , we preach peace, we master someone else and we live as slave to others, we do everything and fall into some kind of natural sleep though awake all the time. We pinch at times to find if its still the dream we woke up from. And one moment we sit down aside, weak and alone, poor and old, by the way getting stamped by the same people. We are no longer a friend or enemy to them. Its then we get reminded of the cellular room. We stand up with blood gathering all the sugars and run with madness in search of the room. We want to get back and resume the dream. We want that noise and emptiness to fill us. And we will find it. A kind of peace hovers over our heads as we walk inside and feel the bed and pillows. We gently rest ourselves on it and begin to hear a lullaby covering our smiling faces. And the dream resumes.

-Aroon Che

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THE WAIT

Nobody is home
When I look around
Where did they go
When the clocks tick wild
The houses are empty
Like temples with gods
The rooms stink
Like grave full of sins
Where did all these men go
They always sang about war
Where did all these women hide
They always danced for peace
Where did all these children sleep
They always dreamed of sharing happiness
And why am I alone
I die not of these medicines
Not of these weakness
But of this loneliness
I ll wait
For a lifetime
To see the gods
Getting birth from this soil and air
I ll wait
With a hope
To see if the gods extend themselves to heal this wound.

-Aroon Che

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The Clowns

Crying on the pile of brothers, in the wall street full of running numbers, with papers falling down to oily roads, his weak limbs shook him a little like some quake born out of nothing like some fall crossing the gravity he knelt down with slowness of apathy the war is growing young and the skies fill with red fog his eyes balls began to slide to the wetness of his inherited tears to the economy of one's greed on to the marx's philosophy of ignorance his shiny tuxedo shone a little more with his weary blood dripping ounce by ounce with a rythm of whore turning him into a singularity of rising in this weak weak life in this mighty mighty death of coins, cards and paychecks of hunger, greed and slaves. fishing in the mirages of this capital circus.

-Aroon Che

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Only to die

The flying birds 

Living in air above all 

Above these trees and cages 

And nests that breed 

The helplessness of greed 

Flying high day and night 

With wings and eyes 

Wide open to darkness and light 

They look never down but up 

They speed never backward but forward 

Soaring high and high with anger 

Of youth over the killing coup 

Down below rotting the little world 

Bartering the respect for every hunger 

The flying birds Look old at young 

And die with a face of infant their hard feet are made of mud 

From mountains and river bed 

Burnt in sun of history of war 

Their hands are smooth 

Like silk from good shepherd 

And kind like sea breeze 

Sailing the empty boats 

To the shores of sailors 

The flying birds 

Never cry at the pain 

Never smile at any trace of happiness 

They fly singing lines 

From some epic war 

That brought freedom and voice 

They fly very far 

Till they don’t hear 

The cries they fight for 

They feel the deafness 

Blinding their own voices 

In the heights filled with nothing space 

Their bodies heat up 

Losing the water 

To singing throats and hands that reap 

The empty fields of governance 

And the deadly crops of difference 

The flying birds 

Soon boil losing their blood 

To the sun that’s nearing 

Growing minute by minute more red 

To these friends of mine soaring 

The flying birds 

Have their flesh torn 

From friction of bulging gases 

Bringing out the new born 

From within the remains 

They soon die In space out there 

For the smiles of world below here 

Their ashes are picked 

Up in the pages of history 

And are made strong but weak 

Strong because they inspire 

Weak because they just inspire. 

The coup never ends 

Like their desire to fly high 

And repair the sun above 

That breed the jungle below 

And their science 

To de-acidify the clouds 

That water the soils here. 

Nature is beyond their song 

And nobody knows what’s wrong. 

May be we shall never fly 

Like those flying birds 

Only to die 

To save the god in us.

-Aroon Che

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Of mind,soul and faith

When you sing aloud 
With this beautiful voice 
Onto the sky above 
I see the clouds gathering 
Flowing in like waves of fur 
To listen this soothing song 
I see them bend a little 
To stretch their arms 
Raining on this plant 
I see this red rose 
Opening its eyes to the whole world 
But why cant you sing all the year long 
To keep the roses as red as they are 
I gently questioned the voice 
I do but, she answered 
But there's my sisters singing far from here 
Louder than me, but beautiful as mine 
One sing of sacrifice following my voice 
She sings of divinity in nature 
Stopping the roses to grow in vanity 
It sings of hands that can hold 
The pride in us, 
 It sings of legs that can walk us 
The lanes of an extrovert 
And that makes the roses wither 
Falling down to kiss the mother 
Taking down the leaves to offer 
This mother a gift of love for her labor. 
And then sing louder another sister 
A song of sustain In the times of essential pain 
She sings of tolerance that can hold 
One's ability to live without everything 
She sings of silence that can weld 
The gaps of survival and living 
Covering the plant with its blanket 
Of snow and pain 
The roses die soon 
Before the song ends 
Just when this makes me cry 
My elder sister sings of anger 
She sings of revenge and fury 
And when she sings louder than anyone 
The evil clouds run away with fear 
Letting the sun hit the soil hard as ever 
The blanket tears down into pieces 
And the grief hides behind the rocks 
The voice cries with great responsibility 
Like of a father towards child 
Like of a teacher towards student 
It wakes up the inner souls 
Waiting to die in the corners 
Of mind,soul and faith 
But as the voice is heard 
They come out for its warmth 
Breaking down the soil hard 
My angry sister would only listen to me 
When I urge to calm down 
As I begin to sing the song of happiness 
She stops and listens to me 
And smiles forgetting the revenge 
She dances to me and gifts me a ring 
Everyday in colors of blue,red and orange 
I wear it everytime it lets the sun kiss me 
To show it bliss as the roses come back 
As I sing day and night with torrents 
The roses dance to my voice 
Like a war that bow its head to a peace 
The voice ends its answers 
And wait for me to decide my choice 
It says there is no end to this fight of songs 
For every pride should see a fall 
Every fall should endure the pain 
Every pain should teach a lesson 
And every lesson should give us happiness 
The voice continue to sing 
As I open my face to every drop 
 It rains on me 
Like it does on those red roses.

-Aroon Che

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Happiness is

The sails I look for 
On the tides of red sea 
Through a glass, broken out of fight 
Between the deserved to live 
And the strongest to survive. 
I look for them under the dim lights 
Of the free moon and luck 
The sails ,as the books say 
Shall come to take us shores 
I am broken alone with this little dream 
With nothing in hands but the glass piece 
I shall believe in their return 
From the sands of time 
So it was written in every story of hope 
And when they come 
I ll board the helm 
And steer to shores 
To The shores of carefree minds 
For All I wanted is a little peace 
Enough to wake up from my pain 
Come with me, my brothers 
To sail these waters of misery 
Onto the beaches of humanity.

-Aroon Che

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Centre of a Wreck

The kitchen's in fire, 
And the streets are bare, 
The men walked in with guns 
Breaking the white walls 
Killed my father 
With bullets from their guns of hate 
Burnt my mother 
With the fire from their matchsticks of rage 
The kitchen's in fire 
Fuming with cries of my mother 
And the streets are bare 
Filled with carcasses all over 
They said its peace 
In the televisions and radios 
They said its to protect rights 
In the newspapers and promises 
But what I see is the blood stained face 
Of a child searching for his arm 
In all this pile of blood and flesh 
But what I see is the smudge of the cake 
Of some birthday party of someone's love 
All over the broken table in the center of this wreck. 
I see only this and many but not peace 
I hear only cries and agony but not democracy 
Where is this happiness and who defines it for us 
The guns from the west or the slaves from the east?

-Aroon Che

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The copper beaches

As the room

Lost its gloom

To the candles and to the oils

The windows panned

The soul to the darkness

And the doors opened

The roads to the burials

I have this memory

Lost and found

In the cracks on the walls

I have this desire

Hidden under the carpets

I take them out

From the darkness

To the darkness

From the hopelessness

To the nothingness

From being forgotten

To being alone

From the rivers

To the the seas

I bring back that memory

I relive that desire

Of being a child

Counting the ships

Building the castles

Playing with the waves

On the beaches of happiness.

As the room

Lost its gloom

To the candles and oils

This nature kindles a light

In me,

In me for this last walk.

-Aroon Che

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The Confederate Loneliness of the Surrounded

The barrels of the guns

Round as the eyes of evil

And as of this earth and sun

Hang on the mud pile

Here and there

Waiting for the prey to show up

With no idea of being followed

And with no idea of being weak

The guns are ready to fire

At the sight of this innocent animal

For they are fed with patriotism

But not with love and compassion

The innocent deer shall soon wake up

From it beautiful dream and walk up

To the brook nearby

The guns shall then fire its head off

To the grass below coloring the dew

With blood, rage and power

I wanted to rise from the ambush

And lay down my gun

To let the deer finish its morning chore

I wanted my peers to standby

And watch the animal play safe

I wanted to start peace

I wanted to give away this anger

To some distant god of nonsense

But the blur soon hovered my eyes

With long waiting for the animal

The thirst changed its shape to greed

And the hunger to annoyance

The deer did come out of its beautiful dream

And the intolerance overtook my culture

I pulled the trigger

And the deer died losing its head

There was a shout of pain and

Cheer of win.

I just found who is who

The me in me.

What good is being taught?

By this goodness of civics and science

When I just found the real ignorance

As the deer shook its last breathe to air

And to the land we are raven of?

-Aroon Che

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The Parallel Waters

There was once this street,running parallel to the river,full of corpses of the old and the young,of same age to the air that's rotting them to dust. Its been years they all lie like a baby sleeping to the voice of its mother. They wear colours of thread from rich heritage. Their hands have bracelets of gold with images of god moulded to the centres. Their faces smile though dead, and are filled with ignorant bliss. They all lie dead as the days die into nights and nights give birth to days. They all lie dead as the stones are carved to images from the epics. They all lie dead as kings melted to democracies. They all lie dead with no memory of how all this began to grow into what's today. They faced floods and the sun. They faced love and war. They faced the wheel and cancers. They faced everything with a smile. They faced everything with a hope. A hope that's protected by faiths, by votes, by rules and doctrines,by law and order of the state,by fear and trust,by the harmful gods and  gentle devils. A hope that's humanity. A hope that's omnipresent. A hope that kindles god in them. Till then they shall lay dead, in the street that runs parallel to the river of life.

-Aroon Che

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Candles

Let the candles burn
Till the nights stay
And fear leave us free
The morals and the epics run
With us all the way
Into this darkness we flee
The men of war promised us
A faith to be with
It doesn't matter who the gods be
There is hope in us
And we shall not die as a myth
In this run for love and life
So I plead you
Let the candles burn
Till the nights stay
And fear leave us free
From the devils inside
And the darkness outside.

-Aroon Che

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Freedom is more than Love

Its been dark when the fields went dry,and the night police were all around everyone's  house,in every street,all through the tide. My house was filled with gold and silver but nothing to eat a morsel of it. The windows looked stained with blood from previous night's fight. We fight every night,each time at chosen house. Last night it was mine. As the rules said,I served beer and steak,to all the guest from the great deserts and rockies. They don't fight but fix them. We,the poles,fight. In exchange we lose our chains. Over a time we forget to fight the rights. The chains were so heavy and we had to pay to lose them. We did pay so. We lost our wives to the kings who wore turbans and to their pimps who wore black suits. They said it would liberate them and so we did. We lost our daughters to time and our sons to war. Neither time nor war returned them to us. Freedom is more important than love. We were wrong but right. Some of us were sooty and they fight well than us. They don't have families to lose. They don't have anything but wars to win. We fought the great depression and the great war of peace. We won them. We won everything but ourselves. Its been dark when the fields went dry and tonight there's a fight next street. I am getting into the usual code of dress,the tie and pants, iron with heat of sweat,washed with big bother's soap. There's one from India fighting the one from Europe. I left the home to the streets filled with lights and men. With a book to write my poems and flute to sing them in the fight, I walked towards the circle of men and into the blood filled perimeters. Its our usual practice to sing some poems to motive the fight. We did it everytime. I am best at them. We are best at them. We drank too much ink that's slowly breeding in  to replace the blood in us. We will soon bleed blood to die. And every fight is a page in this history of ours. The great epic of mankind.

-Aroon Che

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Divine War

This human skin is one good insulator,hiding the wrath of the blood boiling inside, Like that of war thought as peace,this pain and struggle is misunderstood as anger and weakness. Let the ink from my pen rain on these barren pages and flow through the books,through the minds finding the seas of light making this loneliness of mine meaningful and worthwhile. In these times where the stones are planted in soils and watered to grow and bear fruits, I take the sides of parasites than of farmers. I better eat the crop up than manure it to make all this nonsense a divine war.

-Aroon Che

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Matterless

No wonder it rains after you die, 

The smoke from burning you 

Finds its way to the sky 

Freezing to bricks 

That wall the sunlight 
Making the mud below dark and thirsty.
You will rain then, with guilt and grief
Growing the seeds to jungles
Living forever in these loops of life.

-Aroon Che

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God beyond our Skins

We shed more blood walking out of the pit, more than when we fall into one.

The act of God is primarily not to kill the devil inside but to tame it into one good being. 

The irony here is, our prayers , 

which were supposed to be said with courage, 

are instead said with fear. 

That's where we misunderstood everything. 

From the fact that we are each a good human being t

o the truth that there is no God beyond our skins.

-Aroon Che

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Wish

The whole concept of this lifestyle, is everyone's trying hard, to make others look less mystic, cheap and more reachable, and to pretend to look mysterious, rich and unreachable, to the common people. That proves why we don't remember our friends as good as we remember our enemies.

-Aroon Che

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Slow Death

Men can kill Animals
Men can kill Women
Men can kill Children
Men can kill anyone
Anyone can kill the Men
When wars can begin
And greed can walk beyond
Brothers can kill
Each other
And Father can kill
Their mother
The noise can kill
A raising voice
And the silence can kill
One's own self
The religion can kill
The growth of common sense
These politics can kill
The question to moral science
The food can kill
Not the hunger
The water can kill
Not the thirst
But everything that has life
These men got sick
And strong at the same moment
When everything can kill them
Why cant they kill anything
Is the insane question
Befriended with this constitution
Pillared by this religion
For they wrote their own fate
Of this living to struggle and struggling to live
Not one can escape these doors
For they are not doors but walls
Of this room of human science.
Outside its all peace
Let it be there till we die in here.

-Aroon Che

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Nobody's Home

His skin's peeled open 

Like that of a dead carcasses

He signed no death or pain 

Blood didn't flow out of his veins 

He just laid still smiling
At Some distant memory
He slowly turned his head
To see me for what I have done him
He had no lips but only muscle
The cartilage above and the cheeks
Slowly responded to his turning
Shaking to the jerk his turn gave
His eyes, blue as sky, shined like that of smooth beaches
In the sun, under the torch I held
My men walked back a feet
As he rose to walk to me
He felt no danger but I was handy with my sword
He walked to me close as much as an inch
Panting his fresh breath on my sweaty face
Making me calm within and throw myself
On this shoulder, I dropped my sword
And the fire onto to the floor
The last I remember was the touch of his blood filled muscle
On my tanned chins.
I felt life. Walking out of me
Slowly and with care that I don't feel the pain.
I felt life. I felt mother. I felt cleansed.
Like a baby just out of the womb
Like a seed that pushes the dust to prop out
Why did i peel him off
To give him no face
Just to find the real peace
In all this chaos of human race?

-Aroon Che

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TomorrowLand

His skin's peeled open 
Like that of a dead carcasses
He signed no death or pain 
Blood didn't flow out of his veins 
He just laid still smiling
At Some distant memory
He slowly turned his head
To see me for what I have done him
He had no lips but only muscle
The cartilage above and the cheeks
Slowly responded to his turning
Shaking to the jerk his turn gave
His eyes, blue as sky, shined like that of smooth beaches
In the sun, under the torch I held
My men walked back a feet
As he rose to walk to me
He felt no danger but I was handy with my sword
He walked to me close as much as an inch
Panting his fresh breath on my sweaty face
Making me calm within and throw myself
On this shoulder, I dropped my sword
And the fire onto to the floor
The last I remember was the touch of his blood filled muscle
On my tanned chins.
I felt life. Walking out of me
Slowly and with care that I don't feel the pain.
I felt life. I felt mother. I felt cleansed.
Like a baby just out of the womb
Like a seed that pushes the dust to prop out
Why did i peel him off
To give him no face
Just to find the real peace
In all this chaos of human race?

-Aroon Che

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A Happy man's vent

A happy nation is not the one where its people get no need to work but is allowed to make money from the work they like to do. A Nation where the larger part of the working class is exploited to perform duties in the interest of few people is surely but Democratic. In such democracy, leaders are born out of those few rich classes but not from larger interest of people. Such a leadership will drain art, sport and other less profitable businesses from people's mind and plant greed among them which eventually kills everything's that divine. It happens for sure. Now or anytime.

-Aroon Che

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Rockefeller's death

The black moon's out there 
All alone in the bright sky 
The tall factories stand here 
With the silence on every gear 
The dark stars come out of the hide 
From dungeons Walking straight into the streets
Their esteem will have no audience but will be the genesis
And their brightness is lost to shine of the pyre of materials
Into the sky up there painted with the black moon
My father will stop working in the mines
And my brother will start his real life
My mother, will no longer work for the houses And my sister will be back with no marks of knife
The mines will go dry of men
And the whites go vex of slaves
The arts will look up to my brother's hymn And the lust will not find my sisters
So the days have come
Of what we dreamt together
Every minute While resting under the parked wagons
Of the rail road companies that sold litter
Now all of them are gone
The rails and the roads,all gone
The Rockefeller left the world all alone
With all his greed wasted as wine
That never saw the light and the dine
And this is our land
Remember we shall build our mansions
On the bones of our fathers
Remember we shall farm our crops
On the soil soaked with blood of our brothers Lets be the children of God
And share the love to them The love they didn't give to us
Lets be the fathers of good
And bring the end to this mayhem
For its carries no use and sense
Look at the sky And there is a black moon Every night you pray, pray for everyone
To the Gods of some reason.

-Aroon Che

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WHEN

If I could weave backwards
These lines into words
These words into letters
And these letters to emptiness,
I feel young in the imaginations
That began all this, way forward
I feel young in the reasons
That pull all this, way backward
This book was once empty
Like you and me sleeping in the wombs
But now it's old, full to brim
Like you and me in each others' dream
We never die, till we continue this sleep
Weaving back our books
To the unforgettable threads
Colourful but single
Long but simple.

-Aroon Che

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TWILIGHT

I speak to the mountains
Far and high above the plains
I speak to them every day and every night
Of stories and poems
Of wars and peace
Of men and their indulgence
I speak to them in silence
Silence like singing lullabies
They listen to me with patience
They stand still all the while
But I walk around them, sit down sometimes
By the oak tree and take a nap
They wait for me till I wake up
To continue my stories and poems
They grew young and I grew old in years
But we never stopped these meetings
Until one day when I ran out of words.
The mountains looked down to me
With frowning foreheads
And adjusted their throats a little
Clearing the fog to get some space
I looked at them with a face of child
Like the ones waiting for the evening fables
O' son, they began with voice of god
Like the one from the Greek mythologies
O' son, we have grown up so old
To come down to you and play for while
We like your stories and poems, shared
We listened to them all our time
But the moment has come to depart
We cannot have you all the time at feet,
Do climb us, take some chance
And walk beyond us
Walk to the new worlds
And meet people to make new friends.
Walk to the needy and the weak
And help them get what they seek
Walk to the guilty and restless
And preach them the lessons of faith and forgiveness
Walk to every corner of the world
But not just around our feet
Because good things are not for us alone
They should belong to everyone with a beautiful heart
Your stories are not for who can hear
But for those who cant listen
They are not for who can speak
But for those who cant shout
They are not for who can see
But for those who cant perceive
They are not for who can sense
But for those who cant feel.
Walk ahead my son, the world is waiting
Walk beyond us and help the dying.
They bid me a leave and lost into the night
Making the way for me to burn the new light.

-Aroon Che

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MOTHER

I walked the plains
And hills that lay by the rivers
I have eaten the fruits
Of every tree that treasures love
I have lived by the shelters
Of their branches that blind the shine
I have not found a reason
To lust over everything I liked
They got me into their wings
Protecting me against the heavy winds
They got me pair of shoes
Helping me walk the thorns
The waters from the fall
Bathe me every morning
The stars above me
Greet me with smile every evening
There is no shy
For I do not feel different
There is no greed
For I do not envy the creed.
I feel like god
Living among other gods.
I don't have a mother
Other than this beautiful nature.

-Aroon Che

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SLUT

His skin's peeled open
Like that of a dead carcasses
He signed no death or pain
Blood didn't flow out of his veins
He just laid still smiling
At Some distant memory
He slowly turned his head
To see me for what I have done him
He had no lips but only muscle
The cartilage above and the cheeks
Slowly responded to his turning
Shaking to the jerk his turn gave
His eyes, blue as sky, shined like that of smooth beaches
In the sun, under the torch I held
My men walked back a feet
As he rose to walk to me
He felt no danger but I was handy with my sword
He walked to me close as much as an inch
Panting his fresh breath on my sweaty face
Making me calm within and throw myself
On this shoulder, I dropped my sword
And the fire onto to the floor
The last I remember was the touch of his blood filled muscle
On my tanned chins.
I felt life. Walking out of me
Slowly and with care that I don't feel the pain.
I felt life. I felt mother. I felt cleansed.
Like a baby just out of the womb
Like a seed that pushes the dust to prop out
Why did I peel him off
To give him no face
Just to find the real peace
In all this chaos of human race?

-Aroon Che

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