Asad Ali

In ocean there are waves
As high as the tower of Paris
We sailors even don’t pretend to climb
We sailors are happy to survive and recline
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There was someone
Beneath my hoary window
Somewhere deep
In the trembling shadows of bougainvillea
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Hope is like rain vowing to penetrate every pore of life
World is gazing towards the sky for a droplet or two
Dripping through the fingers of some invincible God
Emerging in the thick billows of economic currents
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It all started with the first sight. I opened my eyes in a hazy primordial soup where millions of figurines were floating silently…………shimmering with the dreams, vowing to unchain the mercurial ballerina of reality.

I gazed at the sky through the veil of golden stream, through the mist of mysterious night. I stared at the mighty ocean till it jumped into an arid desert for hundreds of thousands of years and returned with a mischievous smile chanting "See how long I can hold my breath? "
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A boy was burnt alive
Scorched were the clothes, flesh vaporized
Even the bones transmuted to ashes
But something survived
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A note in the sonata bears no right—
No charter to be understood,
No inheritance of selfhood,
No wings of will to unfurl mid-air,
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Love is not something we do, nor something that merely happens to us. It is not an accident, nor an event. It is not the consequence of beauty, chemistry, or fate. Love is not born—it is discovered.
It does not arrive. It has always been.
Love is the most ancient and unalterable truth of the cosmos. It exists beyond desire, beyond time, beyond even our own understanding of self. What we often call "falling in love" is not love itself—it is a trembling recognition of what has always surrounded us.
To love is not to reach outward, but inward—to touch the hidden pulse of existence through another. It is not a sensation but a sacred remembering.
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You Shall Not Fathom Love

You shall not fathom even the faintest thread of love—
Not if you were to gather every tale ever inked beneath the trembling quill of longing,
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You are a prism caught in the breath of the Infinite, scattering the One Light into a thousand hues. This dance of colors is the pageantry of your soul—its virtues, its wounds, its dreams—spun like banners in the wind of time.

There are those who come to you as quiet thieves, drawing out your pigments until your being pales; they are the appointed lessons, the chisels by which the Beloved sculpts away your excess.
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The Hidden Covenant
The Master led his disciples into a sunlit garden where a fig tree stretched its ancient arms toward heaven. He placed paper and brush before them and said, "Draw for me this tree, and in your drawings, let me see the measure of your seeing."
The first disciple drew quickly — a trunk, branches, leaves, and round fruits. A childlike sketch, simple yet recognizable.
The Master smiled, "Here is the vision of the many — life seen in outlines, the surface of things, sufficient for those content with form."
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A wingless bird cannot fly
Cannot even see but the handful of sky
Will never know invisible trails in the sneaky air
No zephyr, no twister will ever lift it high
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With no music, no applause
No hope, no regret
I dance in the dark
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