Cross the Limits of our Skins

Tomorrow's a today
And this fence is a mirage
Nothing binds us
This love,this war but faith
In our mothers and in our fathers
Our fathers fought this battle
Of life ,liberty and happiness
We were born in the middle
Of those blood stained hours
Our mothers fought the riddle
Of time, pressure and darkness
We were born black as coal
We were born weak as a leaf
But what made us shine
And what made us strong
What made us walk the roads
And cross the limits of our skins
What made us stand fearless
Before these ruthless goliaths
I sing to you in this hour of despair
Tomorrow's a today
And we shall find our ways to repair
The time we lost all the way.

-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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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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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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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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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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THE Address Of Love

It looks up high to the clouds above crying not to rain on the mud at its feet for it fears, for sticking for long time. 
It waves to the growing winds from east praying them to erode it inch by inch.
Its a pole.
A pillar that stood in the centre of crossroads.
A pillar once so important.
As much as the rest three to support the kingship.
But the kings are gone and the kingdoms got lost in time.
And the roof flew away with the winds of democracy.
The pillars stood alone for years.
Till the Time and people around tested their strength.
Revolutions fed to histories a lesson.
The rebels learned them well.
They have got tools and patience.
Every night they chipped off each pillar ounce by ounce.
It took them faces and years.
But they did.
Three of four were down.
But not this one.
I was a child when it got me well.
I looked at it every other night under moon and lights,its faces and its agony.
Its wanting to die and its prayers to heaven above,if any.
The village grew into town.
I saw the heads of arch roping the suppressed to its body,beating them all night till they die.
My father weaved a story from epics to stop me wondering much.
Its the story of fate.
Of agony and Gods.
I grew up passing by the pillar for years.
My school changed. The city changed.
The roads around it changed.
The town turned to city.
To make the pillar more painful,the mayor cemented its base.
My house was multi-storeyed and I grew old. Nobody touched the pillar.
Nobody dared.
I didn't know why anyone couldn't.
My father's story of fate still lingered in my room infecting my son.
I see still many dead by every morning.
Tied up all night to that pillar and beaten to death.
I grew old and old only having this wish to see someone rooting it out for once and all.
I may die soon. Why cant that pillar have death like me?
Why cant I kill it and take it with me to the pyre?
And that morning I got up from my death bed and walked to the crossroad with a shovel.
I knocked the pillar with as much might I could.
The sound woke up the city soon but I resumed my last job.
People gathered slowly and looked at me with surprise.
With weakness growing and eyes going blurred I slowly lay myself on the pillar to rest. 
I felt its love for me.
I felt the dying.
I know its taking me in.
I felt my poems being read.
I felt the last minute.
I hope the pillar too felt the same. I was alone.
Lying lifeless and loveless.

- Aroon Che

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The Shine

The lower deck’s full,

Of people, with grimy faces.

Their eyes look dull,

In the gleam of fire walls.

The Gods that never Mull

Stare at us, chained in their frames.

They shall never help us,

For they are, to these men, mere slaves.

The lower deck’s full.

In the middle of growing infernos.

And the upper deck’s of rule,

From the ballots, 

But not from the principles,

They are the snakes in white,

To carnage us, our every right,

The lower deck’s full,

Of people, who built the roads,

Of people, who are real,

Of people, mine and yours,

The lower deck’s full,

I am here, with my comrades,

Fret not; we now chink this wall,

That impedes us to walk into progress.

-Aroon Che

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The Temple

The temple:
There is sunrise and sunset,
There is rain and torrent,
There is bird chirping,
There is herd grazing,
There is wave hitting high,
There is cloud passing by,
There is dew and delight,
There is soil and sprout,
There is rainbow like a crown,
There is heat and noon,
There is shadow and night,
There is tree and fruit,
There is pond and ripple,
There is leaf and caterpillar,
There is grass and green,
There is stone that sheen,
There is darkness but no fear,
There is light that's not a lair,
There is river and mountain,
There is fall and fountain,
There is everything but man,
How lovely mother earth is without pain

-Aroon Che

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I Stand

" I stand defiant in suit of guns,
With compass and comrades,
On this hill that's on the East,
Facing the bull firing from the West.
With flags and faces held high,
Our guns loaded with the question why.
We shall pluck the roots of injustice,
and Thy shall bleed in the comeuppance.
I stand defiant with gun like a seer,
With compass and comrades.
I stand defiant in this love and war,
With compass and comrades."

-Aroon Che

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Bring Me those heads

Bring me those heads,
Of the lords and of the vermin,
Ruling this land of ours,
With the preamble of dying sun.
Let us not burry their heads,
For they are filled to brims, with venom,
They would breed back to lawless jungles,
Out of this damp and terrain.
Instead incinerate them to air,
Allow the smoke turn to clouds,
Of this bad blood and vapour,
To rain them back to clean the stains,
Bring me those heads,
From every cardinal, O' Comrades.

-Aroon Che

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The Last Song of Vishnu

Tomorrow, the doors will be banged,
And the window panes will be broken,
The roofs will begin to crack out of heat,
And the walls will slowly shrink to your skins,
Your skyscrapers will crumble like sand castles,
The roads will get narrower and blind.
Your hospitals will run out of medic and beds,
Your courts will go deaf to law and order,
Your children will go wild in schools and jump off roofs,
Your parents will find this noise as their last lullabies,
There will be a death in every birth,
There will be a fight in fairness,
There will be a madness in every silence,
There will be a devil in every god.
That's when I'll come out of myself,
And you will hide behind your grief.
This is peace, this is the end,
This is peace , this is my command.

-Aroon Che

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The Springs

God’s forgotten children, we are
With masks on faces and guns on flare,
Blazing under the suns and shadows,
Of these machines and democracies.
Wretches and leaders, we are,
For those men of coal and hardware,
Betrayed by the unions and capitals,
We shall defy for our sprite and burials
One day will come when the sun’s,
On the west and the moon’s east.
One day will come our labour pays
Back the rebel inside and that’s just.
You may break into our cities,
We built from our faith and seed.
You may cripple our customs,
We weaved with silks of good.
You may make us stay indoors,
And Kill our children and blot our wives.
You may swindle our sweat,
And close the factories and estates.
You may coerce our homes,
And dreams to take hold of our oils.
Nevertheless you cannot burn,
The psyche of our communist grin.
God’s forgotten children, we are,
And we will order the end to this dire.

-Aroon Che

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The Demo-car

They say, it’s your own car,
But they don’t bother to teach you to drive it.
Instead they advise you to elect a driver, and so you do it.
You simply sit in the rear seat of your own car,
Feeling proud for you have someone to drive you places.
Until you see the car getting ruined by the careless driving.

You change the drivers once in a while; you pay for the repairs,
But you still don’t try to drive the car and there is none to teach you.
Pity you; you never think you can learn it by yourself.
And so drivers move in and out enjoying your car.
Driving you places so recklessly and unprofessionally.
And when you are at home, you despondently look at your car,
Through window panes crying at its humiliating shape.

You wanted to save it for your children,
You wanted them to ride the way you always dream off.
You wash it daily; you apply turmeric and vermilion.
You garland it and finally hand it over to your driver,
Shifting your place to the rear seat, keeping fingers crossed,
About reaching home safe.

I pity you,
For you can’t believe in the drivers you selected,
I pity you,
For you never tried to ride the car since you own it,
I pity you,
For you feel like an outsider in your own car,
Thats how democracy is like. Thats how you, me and all live in here like.

I pity.
Aroon Che

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The Hunger

"All of us, common and hungry men, were taken by some fishermen to a pond, and were made to sit aside to wait for the fish to be served. With this they left us alone and disappeared. 
After a long wait, two of our men rose and walked towards the pond, may be to find the fishermen. 
The first one stood on the bank , called out the fishermen and was pleading them to make it fast.
The second one simply crossed the line and jumped into the pond, stunning us. We could see both side by side. The first one, discussing and the second one, struggling to learn to swim and fish.
Both of them were enough courageous, for they crossed the limits which none of us didn’t dare to.
But the first one is called democratic, dealing with fishermen, directly representing us and the second one is called rebellion, for he was beyond words, a self made man who started to learn by himself the art of feeding the stomach, may for the reason that he knew that the talks will be forever in a democracy, thus turning himself into a game changer. He wanted to feed us rather before we conclude its fate to die.
These two men teach us a lesson here. Though in different lines, its a common lesson.
Elect a good leader, or be one.
And if its not either of the case, no democracy is worth to live in."

-Aroon Che

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The Vietnam

“They said its color.
They said its religion,
They said its money,
They said its power,
They said it’s human,
They said its war.”

We knew not it,
We never tried it,
All we grow is paddy,
All we help is the needy.
They said it’s real,
They said its war.

Never had we met a king,
Nor a leader.
Never did we sing,
The song of cheer.
They said its dawn,
They said its war.

Lost our homes, fields
Lost our blood and friends,
Not enough, our tears.
Not enough, your prayers
They still say, its coming,
They say it’s since war.”

Written by
Aroon Che

This is a poem/ song about a typical Vietnamese, who doesn’t know what is communism and what democracy is, yet still happened to take part in a war, in the role of its sufferer.
The American did a big loss than what communism would have done it for next century.
It arranged a war saying it’s to protect freedom.
But it’s really contrary to what actually happened in the field.
It’s not the war that’s bad. It’s the idea of man to win anything through a war. And it’s bad.

[Vietnam War was fought against Communism for about 18 years. Comrades won it.]

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The Rise

"It is difficult for most of us to climb things. Climb up to where we could feel freedom. Looking around ourselves, we are healthy enough to know we are sick; sick of money, sick of relations, sick of attitude, sick of being human anymore and sick of ourselves. Some, without much thinking, say it is the result of industrial revolution and involves capitalism to carry the blame for our sicknesses. Isn’t it fair? If it’s not capitalism, it would be something else. Basically to start with anything that’s relevant, we should know we are sinking deeper and deeper, day by day and what’s pushing us or is that like what’s pulling us down. There is nothing that’s enough strong to pull you or me so deep into the pits other than our own minds. Comfortable minds.

When Bruce was thrown into this pit from ancient world, all he wants was to come out of it and save Gotham. Isn’t that maniac? Or dreaming nonsense? That’s what people inside the pit symbolically showed him. Once in a while some ill-motivated guy takes the rope to climb up only to see falling down helplessly clashing the pit walls, sometime being fatal. Witnessing this, most of the prisoners, decided not to give a try, may be because they felt all they need is a natural death. They couldn’t risk being free. Bruce knew he was in wrong place. He passed through the thickest of enemy minds back in Gotham, able to pull down the Joker, and he knew climbing up was as easy as a child’s game. He was partly correct.

And he could able to understand this lacuna, only when he failed twice. It’s when he came to know that it’s the fear of death that brings him close to triumph but not the wanting to live. Fear of death is different from wanting to live. Each time he tried climbing up the pit; he wore this safety rope, assuming that IF he fails, he could live little more to try again. That’s hope, immature hope. He couldn’t climb because he knew he would get another chance, if failed in this. His wholesomeness to live more diminished his fear of death. And only when he didn’t use any rope, he had in his mind that if it’s not now, it’s never. This notion helped him a lot to keep answering his doubts that he can climb up and he did. That’s a pure risk.

That’s the pure risk, uncalculated and option-less. Now or never. Can we have that in our real life? Are we that weak, emotionally linked up to family, thinking terribly what friends would talk about us if we fail, what our neighbours would ask if we return home with empty wallets and wounds? Is this your concern? Are you more preparing yourself to answer your co-prisoners, who have actually decided not to take risk? Your Mom, your Dad, your Brothers, your friends? Who do you think know more than you about your dreams? Or do you have a back-up plan to survive after a risk, and do you sugar coat it as practical way of living with back up plans? Or are you just trying something for a show-off? These are all the safety ropes and with them on you, you can never ever climb up to your freedom. Never.

Risk like this is your last chance, your last day. And you will RISE. DESHI BASARA.

-Aroon Che

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The Chase

" In these chasings and rush, we precipitate alot to make our faces ugly and in compensating this, we go after , creating unwanted businesses of good looking, making ourselves duped to look good in the name of healthcare. 

We love so less, wherein we find it difficult to hide this , we try to do because we have this feeling that someone who cannot love is more stupid, so we hide this marked stupidity of ours by these periodic greetings and gifts or by talking great about love at times in open only to showcase ourselves that we value it , though we know we dont have time for it, the love , for many of us is just an unnecessary luxury, an unwanted necessity.

We shrink a lot by taking too much stress, only to watch out that our peers dont cross us in this wild goose chase , making ourselves too lean to be classified as a strong ones which we cover it up through this hitech gyms and energy drinks, though all this superficial make up strengthens our muscles but won’t reach our minds, we remain to be weak deep inside amidst all this trying to be strong.

We hate for no reason, but only for some silly ones, we hate someone may be because they couldn’t satisfy our ego, they couldn’t agree or consider our ignorance or may be they are too smart and we find difficultly in accepting a peer of same capability rising to levels, in a way we make the feeling of hate so cheap and bauble.

In all these chasings and rush, with all this prejudice and ignorance, we lose the meanings of happiness and simplicity. Instead of resurrecting them , we define them in our own stupid ways, expecting others to follow them, inconveniently making ourselves superior among the group, which is one easy way to fall apart, from reality.

We knew the way forwards, but we erase them to make it complicated for others to move forward and when we find ourselves lost in this haze of over-confidences, we look for maps only to see the erased portions and in this desperation we look up to sky to define god and mercy. Such a stupid life."

-Aroon Che

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