Flame

A flame
A picture of clarity
A burning, blinding, burnished beam
Of Fire!

Flame the sword of the Angel
Flame the power of demons
Flame the destroyer of life
And flame the essence of creation...

J.R.R Tolkien

All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither
Deep roots are not reached by the frost

Fog

The famed Delhi fog...well at least famed in Delhi anyway. Ubiquitous symbol of winter's presence. Its all pervasive, caustic and irritating. I make my daily contribution to it(wink!). Cheers to the fog for appearing like it does every year, at least SOME things haven't changed...

Ursula K Le Guin

"In time nothing can BE...without becoming."




SM- I say FEW things can, if it IS once, it IS forever...

Analysis

A friend once remarked to me that I "analyze things to pieces and they hit me on my face". Perhaps most people, like her, labour under the delusion that analysis must be destructive in nature for we are splitting the thing into pieces in trying to determine how it works.

True analysis however lies in RECONSTRUCTING the object of study mentally; and in the process perhaps creating alternatives; and determining its functionality/utility/depth.

It is not forced, rather it is a spontaneous exercise of the developed mind. And as for those who say that: "it destroys the unexplained unsaid vistas of thought" are merely in a comfort zone created by their own delusions. Why bother to look behind the mask when it itself is so beautiful? Such people would say. But it is also neccesary (albeit only sometimes, I will concede) to know the motivating force behind that mask, the creative energy that spurred it to BE

Mingling of the Lights

Whispers in the wind
Hushed and muted
Yet not silenced completely

I hear the change before I see it
I taste it before I hear
Change. It returns different as always.

In the Mingling of the Lights
When shadows dance in play
My spirit rushes to join them
In the fading remnants of the day.

The wind whispers
The light weeps
And the soil is livid
For Change is come
Blown hither again

And as before, so after
I rush to greet it
And my shadow waits for me...

The Last Heir

I close with fumbling fingers
The crypt of my fathers
Some remnant of their presence lingers

The door is crumbling and heavy
Age is a burden all must shoulder
Save a few who embrace
Their death laughing

Their laughter dying
On the lips of their mourners
Or reverberate in the singing Stones

I am the last and the first
I rush to IT
The glory of my life in its conclusion
Like the blush of a sunset in the twilight