I love that word, tradition. A bit archaic yet it settles in the lower pocket of beliefs, I've seen it escaping from hourglass almost everyday, but now it seems to fade away like clouds after raining.
When the skies were bluer we stitched confetti's on empty walls and greetings on the tip of our tongues, we filled hungry stomachs with spices and herbs like rifles stuffed with guncottons.
When I saw time being naked, the last time, it was Diwali where dull hearts and pale skin bloomed into scarlet and beige shades, hope was a little brighter while sorrows a little fainter, and humanity screamed as a loudest forever.
I love that word, tradition. Which bring our hearts closer like orchids, roses and lilies in same fence, but we are drifting apart in this pandemic, till what remains is our own selves. ~Purva
Kabul, T̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶s̶i̶a̶ ̶ the hubris of Asia
When the leaves turn brown and the evenings bleed orange, I'm robbed up by the admirers of mountains, desserts, rivers, bazaars and everything else.
I'm settled to be a paradise with gun-lights on highways, a castle indebted to freedom and a pilgrimage invaded by, once, twice, thrice, till every- thing fades, while Soviet sighs.
Dine in the world library, and trail migrating dynasties on the snippets of my bare skin, call me a coal-tar but you'll excavate diamonds in men on my lands while women are hindered from rebels but often preyed for their beauty.
The sky curls up in blue and the autumn in auburn shades, snow melts upon the empty walls of exhausted palace, and village huts carry too much. I feel like I'm an ordinary city.
But I'm more than museums and mausoleums, maybe a chronicle of vague dates, millions of places, obsolete tongues and unheard wars, hungry for prayers and peace yet served with another history. ~Kabul
If you ask me to nudge whole nine yards of chores someday, I shall walk through boulevards of alphabets before summing up how to fill empty vessels or cut through the blunt edge of knife.
For to walk on a lane we must know in which shoe our feet are placed, to rain our tongues which clouds should be hold on, for perceptions are born from the womb of words and when perception fail to sail, tides of actions must not raise.
Actions may step in from the corridor of Newton's third law of motion, whereas the home belongs to motility of words, where attachments are flaunt- ed by chains, chains hooked up by thoughts and etiquettes.
Thoughts arrive first to shores before waves make an effort to sail, even though ripples create louder sound but without the blow of rhythmic air it shall collapse and faint. ~Purva