I am telling stories to become myself.
I don't remember the land of my birth
Neither do I know a friend from a foe
They all look alike.
I am telling stories to keep myself awake.

I never knew before that stories
Can save or lose lives.
But now, everything depends on a story
And I am telling stories to ensure that I am alive.

I no longer care if they are telling lies or not
I only check how they are telling :
Everything now depends on the how of it.

A lifetime is not enough to tell you
How well you must take care
To tell a story well
If at all you care to tell it.

Because  I know
That they don't know
What they are doing
I'm obliged to forgive.
Amazing logic!

They say,  "Time heals everything."
But for me it is the poem that does it often.
You need not wait for centuries
If the poem comes your way at the right time.
You need not hesitate and beg for another's time
If the poem comes and knocks at your door
And asks, "What is it my dear that burdens you?
Can I help you? I have plenty of time today."

It is then that I walk with her to the riverside  at twilight,
Let her put my head gently on her lap
And show her the stupid wounds that refuse to heal.

Sometimes, she will ask me to cry aloud
And I will wait till the night falls
For I don't want anybody to think that I am silly.

Sometimes, she will tell me fantastic stories
And ask me to tell her a story she hasn't heard.
Often by the time I  wove a story, she will put me to sleep
Only to get up in the morning refreshed as never before!




'

I planted the seed when I had nothing else to do.
It was a seed I received long ago from mom
with some tips as usual:
"This is a common seed which is very cheap
and easily available to anyone anywhere.
But do not underrate it because it is common.
Plant it whenever you find yourself helpless."

That is one reason I planted it in the last week of November
when my best friends started asking me
"How are you going to raise this huge amount
to run our programme?"

The seed  sprouted in no time
and I forgot the woes of abandonment
when I saw the new leaves dancing with the wind
and the small flowers singing with the birds.

My ordinary days were slowly ripening into
ordeals of faith , hope and charity.
Hope was fluttering like the butterflies
And I wanted it to rest somewhere.

Then the sun started shining  so brightly
and the blossoms started bringing fruits.
It was really miraculous.
I drenched it in the waters of Isaiah 45:2 at dawn
and applied the magic verse of Isaiah 60:11
before going to bed.

Now it is no secret in my neighbourhood
that I have in my garden a tree that bears money
and anybody can have the seed for free
provided they plant it in their own land.

If you have not guessed the name of the tree yet,
I shall give you a clue:
The first letter is F.......... and the last is ..........H.

I remember the child who changed the world's heart
While finding a shore to rest in peace
In his effort to escape the fury of the waves
That tossed him back and forth just like his murderers.

I remember the lessons of life I learned at my mother's feet;
Lesson One: Life is an irreplaceable gift of God.
Lesson Two: Every child is a heavenly gift.
Lesson Three: Be vigilant when you see that you live in a place Where children are no longer cherished or protected.

I don't know what binds me to Ailan Kurdee,
But he torments me day and night as though
I were the mom he wanted to hold on.


Or is it because he is going to be the metaphor
That sums up in one word
The atrocities of this era for all generations to come?