While reading the verses of Rumi...there came a thought...
Tried to put that in words.
Of fate and fields…
The eerie erratic wind blows across the moonlit roof,
Quiver of queer questions knock on the innkeepers gate,
The trample of hooves echoes , the rider is a proof.
Of destinies entwined by fortunate fate.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A wanderer.”
Tried to put that in words.
Of fate and fields…
The eerie erratic wind blows across the moonlit roof,
Quiver of queer questions knock on the innkeepers gate,
The trample of hooves echoes , the rider is a proof.
Of destinies entwined by fortunate fate.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A wanderer.”
“A man who sees and feels,
The words unsaid, the secret deals.
Tears of the portraits on tarp
Silhouettes, melody betwixt false leads on harp.”
Will he get here the life he seeks?
He is the one who feels and lives.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A wanderer.”
“A man who lives and remembers.
The winters, summers, July and December.”
What makes him knock on this door?
Is it shelter, solace, or is it something more?
Did he lose his way in this grove?
But, he is the man who remembers to love.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A wanderer.”
“A man who loves and asks,
The questions dark, destroying the masks,
He does that with grace and guilt.
As the blades hurt equally as the hilt.”
Will the innkeeper readmit him free?
‘Coz he is the one who asks to see.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
The silence at door is the answer this time.
The wanderer is gone, as the clock does chime.
Why did he go, the innkeeper wonders?
Shall he find a cave in this rain and thunder?
Was she too late to open the door, she doubts?
To a righteous knight or to another lout.
The wanderer was cold numb and dazed.
His belief in the innkeeper still strong and unfazed.
He was the knight, who had come for his lady,
Conquering the battles against the dark & shady.
The innkeeper couldn’t know, locked in her closet,
Wounded, scarred by petitioners dishonest.
A yonder field beyond wrong and right,
He waits there to meet his light,
Will the innkeeper come out some sunny day?
Out of her closet to that field to stay.
Quiver of queer questions knocked on her gate,
Of destinies entwined by fortunate fate.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A messenger.”
The words unsaid, the secret deals.
Tears of the portraits on tarp
Silhouettes, melody betwixt false leads on harp.”
Will he get here the life he seeks?
He is the one who feels and lives.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A wanderer.”
“A man who lives and remembers.
The winters, summers, July and December.”
What makes him knock on this door?
Is it shelter, solace, or is it something more?
Did he lose his way in this grove?
But, he is the man who remembers to love.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A wanderer.”
“A man who loves and asks,
The questions dark, destroying the masks,
He does that with grace and guilt.
As the blades hurt equally as the hilt.”
Will the innkeeper readmit him free?
‘Coz he is the one who asks to see.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
The silence at door is the answer this time.
The wanderer is gone, as the clock does chime.
Why did he go, the innkeeper wonders?
Shall he find a cave in this rain and thunder?
Was she too late to open the door, she doubts?
To a righteous knight or to another lout.
The wanderer was cold numb and dazed.
His belief in the innkeeper still strong and unfazed.
He was the knight, who had come for his lady,
Conquering the battles against the dark & shady.
The innkeeper couldn’t know, locked in her closet,
Wounded, scarred by petitioners dishonest.
A yonder field beyond wrong and right,
He waits there to meet his light,
Will the innkeeper come out some sunny day?
Out of her closet to that field to stay.
Quiver of queer questions knocked on her gate,
Of destinies entwined by fortunate fate.
“Knock knock.”
Who is it?
“A messenger.”
“The whistling winds bring me to you,
For the knight is dead, he bids adieu.
You would never know,
Against your sanguine glow.
But, I am not afraid to vocate,
The field is now for you to locate.”
“Not as a tribute my lady, not as a salute,
But to be with the knight again, avoiding bruit.
He asks me to remind you the love you had,
He says you smile, yet you are sad.
Cometh to the field he requests.
To his land where his promise awaits.”
The innkeeper winces, aghast at revelation,
She opens the door finally as redemption.
The trample of hooves echo, the rider is a proof,
As the eerie erratic wind blows across the sunlit roof.
O’er the rivers she speeds fast,
To her soul-mate’s field, at last.
They meet there & they shall stay.
The story continues for one more day..
The lovers shall live one more day…
In their field this love shall stay….
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Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about language, ideas, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.” -----------Rumi |
Nisarg Shrivats.
Compassionate and Dispassionate yet intensely passionate
Passionately Psychotic by Nisarg Shrivats is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at http://passionatelypsychotic.blogspot.in/.
