There is a silence that speaks of the soul,
Listen to the signs of the Beloved,

Those in search of ease and comfort,
They shall never find the pathways of the Beloved,

In a reservoir of shadows and lurking darkness,
Those are the pools where real treasures glow.

I spent a few hours with a kindred spirit today,
and I was energized by the hope
and positive energy she spread.

A gentle soul like hers is living proof
that no matter how dark our world becomes,
there is still light and compassion.

The world is getting colder,
getting ever darker,
and becoming ever more violent.  

If each one of us reaches out to the person next to us,
and strikes up a few words of kindness and humanity,
we can bridge the gap,
and drive out the ignorance and paranoia.

To all the ships out upon frozen seas,
to the orphans who snuggle alone,
and to the families adrift upon oceans of grief,
and to those who shelter in the ruins of a toothless city,
and the ones who shift through bins for scraps of food,
and to the animals abandoned along lonely and forgotten lanes,
I say this:

The Beloved Knows...

Reach out to the light in your heart,
Warm each other with kindness,
And trust the beauty of peace.

I journeyed through the valley of promiscuous wolves,
They clawed at me with fiery eyes dripping naked lust,

Dead souls howling out their salacious whistling tunes,
They lurk, haunt and hunt upon the congested roads,

"Come here, sweet one, come here, ride in my fast car,
We'll drive to the woods, and there undress and play."

These men wearing the robes of respect and society,
Prowling the streets for degradation and depravity,

I found the courage of the stainless heavenly stars,
No hungry wolf will claim the sacred cloth of my soul,

My tears are not for the valley of the cursed wolves,
I weep for the words heard at the beginning of time.

I believed,
You lied

I gave,
You craved

I cried,
You tried

I remembered,
You forgot

I loved,
You mocked

I slaved,
You depraved

I wrote,
You joked

I hurt,
You searched

I waited,
You hated

I died,
You sighed



©Rangzeb Hussain

Journey to Mecca – The IMAX Experience

Imagine the scene... There are crowds of people milling about, some in queues, some chatting by the windows, others sipping a warm drink. There are children playing in corners, babies drinking milk, and wherever you look you see people of all creeds and races united under the banner of a shared humanity. And what is the reason for this diverse cross section of society to be present in one place on a quiet and sleepy Sunday afternoon at Birmingham’s ThinkTank? The answer is right there across the busy foyer. It is a poster for a new IMAX film called “Journey to Mecca”. The very air bubbles with excitement and expectation as the cinema staff cut the proverbial ribbon and usher the people into the auditorium.

Space, vast and open, is the first thing that hits the audience as they take their seats and let their eyes wander over the immense spectrum of the IMAX screen. A map unfurls across the screen and a narrator explains the time and lays down the background to the scene that is about to commence. The year is 1325, the place is Tangier and the story is about a man who is about to embark upon a journey to the holy city of Mecca on a pilgrimage. The charismatic young man is Ibn Battuta, he stares at the stars that twinkle across the canvas of the night sky and he dreams of spires, of domes, of jewelled cities that sparkle in the desert sands, and his vision swoops like a falcon over the alleys and streets of the kingdom until they rest upon the Ka’aba, the sacred building at the heart of Islam.

Ibn Battuta bids farewell to his beloved family and sets out on his journey which will see him tested, both physically and psychologically, as he travels to the fabled city of Mecca. His trials and tribulations on the road to Mecca are detailed with an emotional richness rarely seen in modern cinema. The script is nuanced in a way that allows the audience to connect with the action and the various characters. The depth of research and the care in which the tale is told is delicately balanced. This is cinema as entertainment and as education.

The film reveals the magic and wonder of the Hajj by contrasting the life of Ibn Battuta with modern day worshippers at the same holy sites as those visited by the young traveller all those years ago. The scale of the event is brought to realisation in a way that will make even the most jaded film connoisseur gasp with astonishment.

In terms of technicalities, the IMAX technology is notorious for being extremely expensive and difficult to master. The format does not allow for the creative freedom that one can utilize in 35mm, so it is to the credit of the crew that this film looks seamless and breathtaking. Every single frame of the drama is a beautifully crafted canvas that seems to glow like a painting. The cinematography is exemplary and employs a painterly palette. The deserts and mountains are dry, cracked and dusty brown like wrinkled parchment while the sun drips golden lava across the scorching landscape. The white garments of the pilgrims are like beacons floating in the creamy dust of the desert sands whilst the tapestries hanging in the bazaars are lovingly stitched in green and blue threads; and the silver and gold bangles on the arms and ankles of the village girls ****** and twinkle. The atmosphere of warmth and friendship is apparent in every scene, especially when the succulent food is shared by the soft red glow of the campfires. High above this blend of colours, languages and the swirl of human emotions are the dancing stars that ripple in the heavens. The spectacle and sounds of a bygone era are stunningly designed.

The soundtrack also serves the film quite well. The music is never intrusive or melodramatic, it is there as a soft accompaniment to the proceedings. The use of strings, Moorish mandolins, African percussion and the human voice brings an exotic and ethereal ambiance to the drama.

“Journey to Mecca” is a journey of hope, a journey of understanding and a journey that will inspire. The sheer magnitude and beauty of this film left the audience awed and instilled a desire to learn more about the past which we sometimes neglect to reflect upon in our fast moving lives. This film is an ode to peace, love and compassion, and acts as a bridge of understanding between the past and present. And, as the film fades to black at the ******, there is a final haunting image that will resonate with every member of the audience. The message is simple and poignant. It illustrates the transient and swift nature of life; it shows how we glow brightly by the light of the noon day sun and then fade into the tranquil shadows of the coming twilight. Our journey in this life should be one that respects all of humanity despite our cultural or political differences. It is not often that one leaves the cinema knowing that your soul has been moved by something rare, delicate and exquisite. This was one of those rare occasions.

I have seen emperors fall,
And I have seen empires crumble,
I have felt the tears of history,
And I have bled the blood of nations,
I have witnessed slavery,
And I have watched freedom die,
I know the silence of a hollow heart,
And I know the pain of memory,
I stand here mute and cold,
But one day I will dare to speak,
Fear me on that dread day...

Your writing lit up the imagination,
Deeply human tales full of passion,
Full of life and love,
Death too,
Death upon the lonely highways of the world,
Yet even in death, you gave us hope,
The spirits of your characters lived on,
And you shall too,
Your stories will live ever on,
Thank you for the emotional magic,
Blessings be upon your soul.

They may reduce a building to rubble,
The men of violence may break our bones,
And the killers of peace may silence a city,

But know one thing...

The spirit of Love
and Peace
will forever fly.

Love is…
to breathe,
to hold,
to feel,
to kiss,
to heal,
and to be free.

Love each other,
Love one another,
Love here and now.

One Love.

Oh, my Darling, my Darling,
Our purple passion rises, rises,
Your heart beats faster, faster,
My desire burrows deeper, deeper,

Both bodies warm, warm,
Fingers tracing, tracing,
I embrace you tightly, tightly,
Your breath sings, sings,

"Now," you whisper, whisper,
"Yes," I ******, ******,
"Faster," you gasp, gasp,
"Here I come," I pump, pump,

I rapidly withdraw, withdraw,
Sweating and pulling out, out,
I peel off the sheath, sheath,
And make myself ready, ready,

I aim my shaft hard and true, true,
Over your peacock feathers, feathers,
Thick lava spirals out hot, hot,
Settling in your bellybutton, bellybutton,

Your index finger dances, dances,
It swirls in the creamy pool round, round,
You trace across my glistening juices, juices,
The light in your eyes smiles, smiles,

You use my salty ink as lipstick, lipstick,
My liquid sparkles across your sweet lips, lips,
I lean over and come in close, close,
And upon your wet syrupy lips I kiss, kiss,

In that moment I taste life's bliss, bliss,
Two souls become as one, one,
Our hearts tasting love and peace, peace,
Our song embroidered upon stars, stars.

We

are

all

living

under

the

threat

of

Death,

Rich

or

Poor,

Black

or

White,

Christian

or

Jew,­

we

are

all

doomed

for

to

die,

no

one

can

run

or

hide,

go

ahead

I

dare

you

to

try

...



©Rangzeb Hussain

A husband without his wife is a desert without an oasis,

A man without a woman’s shadow is a man without a trace,

A marriage without passion is a rainbow without colour,

A child without a mother is a seed without a flower,

A home without a family is a ship without an anchor,

A beauty without grace is a diamond without a glow,

A mirror without a face is a ghost without a name,

A breath without a prayer is a life without hope,

A body without a soul is a well without water,

A search without faith is a hollow shell without the Creator,

A lover without the Beloved is a life without meaning,

A question without sense is an answer without understanding,

A hunger without reason is a famine without deliverance,

A palace without people is a king without a crown,

A country without peace is a cancer without a cure,

A sentence without mercy is a law without justice,

A nation without a dream is a song without a melody,

A singer without a voice is a bird without wings,

A painting without colour is black without white,

A night without sleep is a room without light,

A day without end is work without play,

A circle without a line is a shape without form,

A life without laughter is death without life.


©Rangzeb Hussain

In this world they shall hurl jagged rocks,
And they shall fire the bullets of hate,

But look,
And behold,

She turns the rocks into soft reclining seats,
And the hate she turns into the light of love.

Light I had, a stage too, and the music of my soul,
In this place of solitude and forgotten memories,
I danced, I searched, and I found the Beloved,

The afternoon hour weaved light with gold,
And before the coming of the whispering dark
I flew to the glittering landscapes of contemplation.

Seasons of the Beloved's eternal light,
Glowing after the storms of existence,

No man made bullet shall dim the unity,
No man made pain shall dim the joy,

Step out into the landscapes of healing,
And dance to the sweet lyric of humanity.

Life
Lies,
Love
Lusted,
Trust
Tortured,
Shell
Shocked,
Bones
Batt­ered,
Jagged
Justice,
Desolate
Death.



©Rangzeb Hussain

White is the colour of my true love’s cherry cheeks,

White is the colour of my true love’s tantalizing teeth,

White is the colour of my true love’s foxy fingertips,

White is the colour of my true’s truly delicious dish,

White is the colour of my true love’s social scarf,

White is the colour of my true love's lyrical laugh,

White is the colour of my true love’s bilingual breath,

White is the colour of my true love’s playful pledge,

White is the colour of my true love’s flowery fragrance,

White is the colour of my true love’s decorated decadence,

White is the colour of my true love's delirious delight,

White is the colour of my true love’s sugared spice,

White is the colour of my true love’s secret shirt,

White is the colour of my true love’s purple pearls,

White is the colour of my true love’s shapely shoes,

White is the colour of my true love’s brooding Blues,

White is the colour of my true love’s wonderful words,

White is the colour of my true love’s dashing door,

White is the colour of my true love’s brilliant bedsheets,

White is the colour of my true love’s toxic treats,

White is the colour of my true love’s distant dreams,

White is the colour of my true love’s ring that glow gleams,

White is the colour of my true love’s guilty guile,

White is the colour of my bitter bile

For...

Black is the colour of my true love’s hardened heart.



©Rangzeb Hussain

On the eve of Valentine,
The night roads closed in,

No cards for the abandoned,
No roses for the homeless,

Life lived from a carton,
Eaten and discarded,

They are your brothers,
Your sisters, your friends,

One the eve of Valentine,
A soul wept alone in a deserted road.

Men are the beasts
that ensnare with
the tongue of love.



©Rangzeb Hussain

On the music of a summer's day a message floated,
High up it drifted upon the breath of the eternal Beloved,

Our world stands upon the lonely crossroads of life,
The message of humanity balanced upon the edge,

No more darkness, no more hatred,
No more division, no more racism,

We need no words or false speeches and promises,
The mercy we want is as weightless as a nightingale's feather,

All of us, black or white, we are passengers without borders,
Our hearts pulsating beautifully for a brief moment,

And then, in the fading of the silent years,
We become a memory upon a summer's day.

Madness round about us and no one knows,
Memories of ember fired trust,
Watch them, these entombed brains,
Piano sonata, violin concerto, torn notes,
Who are the ******, them or us?

Madness, insanity, absurdity, irrationality,
Craziness, dementia, stupidity, psychosis,
Senility, fanatical, deranged, mental,
Foolishness, hysterical, delusional, frenzied,
Psychotic, maniacal, lunacy, neurosis, disordered,
Take these notes and from them weave
A hymn to chaos.

And so here it begins...

Bee bar locked up honey sting hive,
For them that have wept grains of sand warm yet wet,
In that dark distant horizon mountain bark,
Onion quake cuts splash serrated blade,
Insanity uncorked frothy so seeps humanity.

Orphan sky spits pregnant daggers drip,
Wing plucked harpies never will sing,
Dead sailors salted lie in silken mermaid beds,
Schooners sail the scattered chase round the horned tail,
Skulls bubble air sockets freed from cloven trouble.

Roads webbed spiralled butterfly miles of bottled lies,
Venom harvested acres baked into medicine,
Undone years plunged inside veins popped into mouths,
I loved you know,
No, no, you did not know for all eternity.

Hope filed cabinet all lost my ghostly dancer,
Rooms silver sunned windows seared,
Playground memories brim on the haze,
Smoke fogged pipes puffed clouds,
Asleep amongst trees over green glass grass blades frost.

Hold fingers to hands strange,
Notes ring around maze tower of desires,
Low sands but tides rise and torrents break or fall,
Alone we enter same goes exit,
Midnight clowns ****** into dreamscapes.

Creased rage silver ironed steam brains,
Unfurl flags red and painted war pain,
Impotent artful eye with sedated lust,
Boil drum not loud remember to listen,
Say less, speak more, silence best of all.

Galleons crawl upon the divided cloud docks,
Look there, point to starboard land ahoy,
Deep bosomed tear slaked shore,
Sense mixed universe reduced to a tick-tock,
Never shall it stand, withered time no glance past.

Adios, fare thee well, goodbye, auf wiedersehen,
Tongues weep, eyes talk, observe tender songs silence,
Contradiction philosophises perplexing paradoxes pure,
Marbles, one and all, drown in the air,
Narrow, so narrow are those who judge all.

Sin to fear and all is terror called,
Wanton doves warble tunes broken,
Afraid I was, too wrapped in fear coiled I,
To know fright and bride forsake,
Never were holes deeper dug.

Reason not the rhythm nor rhyme,
Pandora, oh Pandora, what hast thou done?
Stare upon thy casket coffin spread-eagled,
Fire stealer Prometheus universal milk burns,
Gorgon Medusa snake dancer charmer seducer.

Silent bones drum against skin, wake up fool!
White winged dove blood red beak suite,
Humbled blood sore butchered vows vain,
Then as now silent partner is all,
Meant so much more you were.

Rapier, pistol, kiss and hold, to my temple place,
Slash, bang, smack and rake, let matter escape,
What uncharted continents we all are,
Walls rise hand bricked high over hill and sky,
Dilated screams of the civil dead no wall can cage.

Tears glitter sky to earth,
Seeding jewels amongst dung natural,
Fountains colour horizon wide,
Sanity transfigured stitched, haggled,
Eternal slaughter diamond edged sold.

Torquemada burrows rib cracked skin blood,
Skeleton tomb dust for leprosy romance,
Wail now poor Quasimodo tongue-tied,
No one to keep company but rat bones,
Unborn, forgotten, locked and barred.

Hush there! Let there be deafening silence,
Lie, cuddle snuggle, caress dark death,
There, still now, wipe away sleep,
Space time galaxies born in minds beyond measure,
Planets die, titans die, you and me we all certify.

Madness here! She creeps into bed mine,
Yours too! Oh, how richly embraced we,
Paris Town cellars breed inmates,
Lice tea stirred drunk and promises sung,
Escape none, trapped all, sky above and death underfoot.

This asylum madness no wall can hold,
Floats into night skies and into ears young,
Oh no, goodness no, you cannot out keep it in,
Destroy the house of madness you cannot,
Dost thou fear thyself knave? ‘tis merely a jest most musical,
All the chords sprinkled peppered and cast asunder.*



©Rangzeb Hussain

Her name is Magda and this is her story.

Cast your mind to another time, another place...

The year is 1939 and the place is Germany. The night is cold, the wind howls and upon the strike of midnight there is a thunderous hammering upon the door where little Magda lives. It is the Gestapo, ******’s secret police, they arrest Magda’s father and send him to clear minefields for the German army. Her father has not committed any crime. He is a law abiding citizen who works hard and is a respected member of society. He is arrested because he happens to be Jewish.

Less than a year after the arrest Magda’s mother receives a letter which says her husband has been killed.

Then, on another wild and frightful night there is thunder once more upon the door. This time the soldiers arrive and take Magda, her mother and Magda’s brother George, who is only four-years old.

They are driven to the railway station and packed into a cattle truck with many other people. The floor of the tight compartment is slippery with cow dung, the walls greasy with grime and dirt, and the air hangs heavy with the stale sweat of fear. The prisoners pray silently.

Magda can feel the heat rising as time passes and her mouth and lips become dry. The air is becoming humid, people are gasping, some have fainted, others are weeping. Magda has no idea how long she has been trapped in this claustrophobic dungeon. Her throat burns but there is no water and no food, just slow and painful suffocation. The journey seems to be without end.

Finally, when she thinks she is about to faint, the train screeches to a halt. There are screams and shouts as the prisoners are pushed and shoved out of the carriages and marched towards the barbed-wire gates of the death camp that looms out of the morning fog. Soldiers stand at the sides pointing rifles at the new prisoners. Magda jumps back from when she sees a huge dog snap at her. The spittle from the dog’s foaming mouth flicks across her wrist and she shivers. She notices the sharp teeth and the raging eyes of the dog. The soldier tugs on the dog’s leash and laughs.

There are men in black leather uniforms who are separating the prisoners into two lines, one for men and one for women. Magda’s little brother George is torn from his mother’s arms and thrown into the line where the male prisoners are waiting. Her mother tries to fight her way through the soldiers but she is thrown back and falls into the mud. When she gets up she sees the line of men close around little George and he vanishes. This will be the last time Magda and her mother will ever see little George.

The seasons change, the world turns and time passes. The year is now 1944 and the prison is a place of hunger, thirst, disease and death. There is nothing but fear and sadness as family after family is killed for no other reason except that they are Jews.

Once more, on a stormy night, there is a scream in the night and Magda wakes up. She reaches over and touches her starving and skeletal mother, she searches for her mother’s warmth and her protection, but on this night when her fingers clutch her mother she finds only the cold. Her mother has passed away during the night.

The next day the Allied Forces arrive and liberate the death camp. Magda is free at last. Her frail body is thin but she has survived. She knows that her mother only lived as long as she did so that Magda would survive.

There is an ambulance waiting and Magda is driven to a hospital and from there she is given the very last seat on a plane bound for Great Britain. She arrives in Birmingham and is welcomed with open arms. The people are friendly, warm, kind and smile when they speak. Magda cannot speak English but in time she learns to read and write and soon she is living with a foster family who treat her with love.

Magda knows that in Germany she was not allowed to go out and play. Her mother could only go to one shop for a few minutes under armed guard. The family had no freedom and no protection. Things in England are different. She can go to school, visit shops and parks, spend time with friends and go to her place of worship without any fear.

Every week she goes to Steelhouse Lane Police station and gets her documents stamped. She can only stay in England if she is a student otherwise she will be deported to Germany.  Thus, Magda studies hard and hopes to go to college. She is still sad inside because she knows when her education ends she will have to return to Germany. Sergeant Roberts, from Steelhouse Lane Police station, smiles warmly and advises her, “Magda, if anyone ever asks you what it is that you’re studying, tell them you’re studying to be a grandmother.”

Once more time spins and this time eighty years have passed and the year is 2011 and the place is Birmingham Town Hall. An elegant lady walks onto the stage, the light bounces on her curly hair creating a silvery halo around her glowing face and the audience wait eagerly to hear her speak. She is calm, peaceful and her voice is clear despite her age. She carries no darkness or hate or vengeance, only love. She looks at the audience and smiles gently and says, “My name is Magda and this is my story...”



©Rangzeb Hussain

Treat your fellow human beings with warmth,
With compassion and with understanding,

Be patient and listen to their words,
Give them support and give them hope,

They hunger for the balm of acceptance,
Each day for them is a battle for existence.

Her name was Razan Ashraf Abdul Qadir al-Najjar,
From 7am till 8pm she helped the injured,
Tending to them on the fields of freedom.

This was her weapon,
Her white medical coat,
Now stained with her life’s blood.

“Her only weapon was her medical vest,”
Her Mother’s voice drowns in pain,
“She may have been small, but she was strong.”

The last time she saw her daughter,
“She stood up and smiled at me,
She flew like a bird in front of me.”

The angel of mercy,
Her goal was to save lives,
And offer relief to the wounded.

Her arms raised high to show she was unarmed,
She approached a victim lying upon the ground,
But the ******’s trigger only knew the language of hatred.

And a bullet blinked hard and fast,
The wrath of the single butterfly bullet was so brutal
It ruptured into three other medics.

A bullet designed to explode upon impact,
It lacerates and pulverises bone and tissue,
The Devil’s Banned Bullet.

It was a Friday,
In the month of Ramadan,
When the desert sand drank her blood.

A weeping Mother kisses a jacket
Stained with her daughter’s blood,
“I wish I could have seen her in her white wedding dress.”

Only the songs of lamentations now,
Grief shrieks through the streets without water,
And the world watches in censored silence.

In the room there is a heart beating fast and fresh,
A child newly dressed from heaven’s kingdom blessed,

Touch and feel the softness of unpainted beauty,
No pressure yet, no career, no worries, nor any duties,

Breathe in and taste the fragrance of sweet paradise,
This perfume is innocence; it can never be bought or priced,

What lovely eyes, full of vitality and life’s bright energy,
The world has not yet cast its shadows on this miracle of biology,

Mother and child glow in a world drunk on darkness,
This gift to mankind, this birth makes Death hopeless.

A city burns,
a road to hell opens,
and in that fire and fury,
comes a judgement older than time.

Mother, My Mother,
My fingerprint of Humanity,
The soul of my soul,
I miss you so much,
In the hardest winter of existence
Your smile still warms my weeping heart,
One day, I know not when, we shall meet again,
And I shall feel your warm embrace again,
And winter will melt away into memory,
Nor shall there be tears or weeping of the willows,
I shall stand atop the highest hill
And the rain will wash away all grief,
And the spirit of Love will sing,
It will sing of a love deeper and older than time,
It shall sing of a hymn written by the Beloved,
And the melody will be Life,
And the lyrics will be of birth and hope,
And the chorus will be sung in valleys across Heaven's shires,
Mother, My Mother.

He was born under sun soaked skies,
In the land of dawn’s rolling mountains,
But this was home here and now,
He was British,
He loved the flavours of his community,
And he inhaled the scent of this multi-coloured nation.

For over seventy years he walked from home to work,
And from work to home, a stone’s throw from a school,
He walked through these happy and silent streets,
He walked that same journey five times each day
To offer up his love and his prayers,
And to give thanks for the daily bread he baked.

Then…

One dark night of the soul,
As he left his local mosque,
And as he neared the safety of his home,
Three infernal stabs came from the back,
Deep, the blade slashed hard and it slashed deep,
Grandfather, father, husband… no more.

He was buried under sun soaked skies,
In the land of green lilting hills,
This was home here and now,
Every speck on the crowded horizon is a human,
The sun’s heat incinerates their hopes and tears,
And the soil wept for justice of a gentle soul.

I sit in a world with crucified colours,
But O my people,
I have a rainbow gleaming in my heart,

The wind shrieks and scratches at my hopes,
But O my people,
I keep alive the flame of my dreams,

Death combs cold air through my hair,
But O my people,
I am content and nourish my fears with Life,

War has stormed through my house and lands,
But O my people,
In my arms I cuddle the seeds of a new day.

"...and in the depths of silky darkness,
yet there was the brightest of lights,
in those jewels that are the eyes,
there rests the soul..."*



©Rangzeb Hussain

Would

that I

could

turn back

the weeping

tides of time...



©Rangzeb Hussain

I place a gun to my temple,
My dreams lie trampled,
My mosque everyday burned and mocked,
My church fired with brimstone and rocks,
My synagogue scarred and tarred,
My eyes see through the false plastic masks,
My body my simple shrine,
My blood red as winter’s wine,
My head wears no crown and I am all alone,
I pull the trigger and kneel at God’s eternal throne.

Smoke in the underpass,
Darkness in the subway pass,
Evil in the alley,
Shadows in Death's valley.

Into the sultry misty wood enters a pert
girl wearing a red hood and tight skirt,
the slinky material short and silky,
rising high to reveal a slash of black lace curly and *****.

He grabs her from behind stifling her shout,
He forces claws across and into her lipstick mouth,
He stabs her face into the ***** stained wall,
He reeks of cheap aftershave as he throws her against the iron door.

Darkness enters her eyes and tears,
Darkness enters her mouth and ears,
Darkness enters her heart and nose,
Darkness empties inside her soul.



©Rangzeb Hussain

O, my Beloved, Lord of the Worlds,
Your light of life graces our existence,
Maker of All, Giver of Hope, the Almighty,

The golden hour of the day is here,

Out there, in the bones of the cold stones,
Built by working men long gone,
Their fingerprints still linger in history,

We shall remember their cemented art,

In this palace of memories comes a princess,
From far distant sands of humanity’s colours,
She dances her passion in this serene arena,

In the solitude of the light a bird flutters her wings.

They call him Malik,
‘Mad’ Malik,
In the streets he tiptoes and dances,
From cold of dawn
to the dark of dusk,
He weaves and swings to beats,
On streets corners and by bus stops,
He shouts and sings,
Cars brake hard and drivers wave and smile.

In sun, wind or rain,
In storm, heatwave, and in the shade,
This man is the spirit of our streets,
His zesty zany jiving
It touches black and white,
It reaches young and old,
He makes us stop and pause,
Call him what you may,
But in his heart he hears music of the soul.

A rare human indeed,
Not one to be chained in an office,
Not one to run the rat race,
Not one to follow orders or conform,
He dares to do what others dream,
He dares to scream in the rain,
He dares to taste snowflakes,
Freedom wild and uncontained,
‘Mad’ Malik long may you dance away human pain.

Who will write our songs now?
Our children only know the sad chants of death.

Who will weep for our forgotten dead?
Our histories are buried under mountains of war.

Who will rock us to sleep now?
Our pillows are pockmarked with the roar of nightmares.

Who will sing and celebrate our days now?
Our skies are filled with the screams of death’s drones.

Who will feed us now?
Our hunger feeds our minds and sustains our souls.

Who will smile with us now?
Our families have been harvested into early earthen graves.

Who will remember us now?
Our haunted smiles are all that remain.

*Will you also take that from us?

They tried to bury the King who lived amongst beggars,
His was the Kingdom where the throne shimmered with prayers,
He had no need for the bloodstained seat of man-made power,

His crown was studded with the rapturous light of truth,
They came to carve out the heart of mercy at the break of dawn,
Their swords and spears twinkled under the newly born sunlight,

Wood, nails, hammers and spears, daggers  too,
They wished to silence one who walked in the valley of the lepers,
In the court of snakes and vipers they scorned his words of hope,

They could not extinguish the message of the Beloved,
His words were written at the very first light of the first day,
Their eternal beauty has seduced and melted mountains into rivers.