Category: Written in 2003

Fight.

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

Midnight passed in fight. It’s night. Morn, some say.
The room’s tube bright, Lata fills the back ground.
You sleep: for mother waits at break of day!
(Here I wait for you to make any sound.)
I am dark and you seem to be light.
Each consumes the other – no middle ground.
Do we wait for chaos? The Last Day Fight?
For Nature to let us loose? Hold us bound?
I write. Lata sings. You sleep – or do you?
I don’t move to check. Each seized already
In wicked persona struggles – flu, too.
Emotions are far from being steady.
You grunt, I sing. I dance, you look away.
Love has come. So how do we make it stay?

26th January.
5:00 a.m.

An Unheard-of Balance.

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An Unheard of Balance.

The scales have never tipped in my favour,
And people holding them cheat,
My life knows it loses endeavour
Where balance and tears fail to meet.

Prejudice is something I detest,
Having felt it numerous times,
But loss of balance I cannot best,
To me, it is poetry without rhymes.

Time proven, I have been hurt by this,
And I am wary of it from the start,
Though chances I never fail to miss,
Despite grievances to the heart.

Never let it be said, that I
Neglected to hold a hand holding scales,
Though it may fling dust in my eye
I just add the wound in my tales.

Each time I have held the hand,
It has cast me down,
So please do not misunderstand,
If in my heart its kind has won renown.

You there, holding the scales,
Do not frown at me so,
My foolish heart to trust never fails,
Ah, a smile … you already know.

The Song and the Hand.

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Of Beren and Lúthien.

I have heard stories of love and its surpassing hate,
And of how some averted tragedy and rewrote fate.
I have heard of heroes and gallant deeds,
Of blood and war and their causes in unworthy needs.
I have heard of all in this long life of mine,
But one story of all evades destruction by time.

I have heard tell of the great lady dressed in blue,
And eyes which spoke of a rain-filled cloud’s hue.
Moonlight her skin, shadowy twilight in her hair,
In Beleriand there proved none who was so fair.
In the land of Doriath she did dwell –
The one we called Lúthien Tinúviel.

In the story her heart’s breath was linked to one,
Who had fire in his mortal veins, Barahir’s son.
He was one trapped by vengeance, an outlaw,
With the kind of valour that few ever saw.
One who feared captivity but smiled at death,
And hated the Enemy with every breath.

They loved each other at first sight,
Through each morning and each night.
Daeron was the minstrel who betrayed them to the King,
And of the story that followed I shall not sing.
For all here know of the quest of the Silmaril,
It is something that is talked of still.

I wish to speak of the Love that between two hearts grew,
Something that I wished I could have too.
It is something beyond praise to achieve,
Losing a hand and yet manage to weave,
A noose so tight, to spite a father’s austere frown,
To cut the Jewel from Morgoth’s crown!

But what of the courage of Lúthien?
The one that surpassed that of many men!
To rush to her beloved despite the evil in elves,
Who forgot all in lust despite themselves –
With the help of an unlikely friend – a hound –
To rescue him with whose fate hers was bound.

Her strength combined with his was victory,
For if not for her song, rewritten would be history.
If not for her lips to draw out venom, or her power
To staunch mortal wounds, ghastly would have been the hour.

To this love – which made a mortal hold Feanor’s jewel,
And an elf to chose mortality with him to dwell,
I sink to a knee and bow my head low,
And wonder if such a love I shall ever know.