I feel a simple joy
As I look upon the hills
The kind that uplifts my heart
Without the skiing thrills.

The trees look their best
All dressed in multi-coloured hues
And stretch for miles around
Against skies of brightest blues.

And as I watch the sun,
Rise from the other side;
I see life stirring out,
From where at night it hides.

The sky gets filled with colour:
To a warm tangerine-orange glow;
And my mind is filled with awe,
At this wondrously delightful show.

Some birds have started
Singing their happy whistling tunes;
And will continue with their songs,
Till its way past noon.

There are some that have started
Before the day broke into dawn,
And unite with the melodies
Of those who start later in the morn.

And these very merry sounds
So full of happy cheer
Makes the state of Kashmir,
Our very prized frontier.

The sounds are echoed far and wide
On this mountainous terrain
Over hills and through valleys
They reach below to the plains.

At night it gets all quiet,
Except for the babbling brook
And the occasional hoot of the owl
That startles me from my book.

How do I know,
when is the time,
when this love of the transient,
this love of the strings of the sunlight,
this love of the color of the birds,
this love of the *** flowers,
this love of your expressions,
this love of art,
this maddening love,
will turn into the love of the soul,
will turn into the love of the artist?

© Manan sheel.

Under the garment of winter,
I see sunshine,
new dawn,
tulip flowers,
melody birds,
and a hint of spring breezes.

waiting to be awakened by
an act of kindness,
a murmur of prayer,
an innovative idea,
the song of life,
and the whisper of love.

Hussein Dekmak

Copyright

When just a child I'd
look to the sky would
wish birds swoop down
and Carrie me away to
a much warmer place
far away from the cold
climate I lived

Got jealous birds gathering
ready to migrate I wanted
to go with them fly away
to Africa and see the trees
unusual flat trees always
fascinated me

Birds flutter around,
Like fighter jets,
Flying through and out of a concentration of green matter,
Feasting on the summer’s last bounty,
Their happy chirps setting the background of my nature made hiking soundtrack,
The sun may not be out,
But the warmth that radiates through my soul,
Reminds me that I am alive,
For a fleeting moment,
The stomps of my boots and the flutters in my belly,
Coupled with the beads of sweat gathering at the part of my head you like to kiss,
Time slows down,
There’s no me and there’s no you,
I can feel nature and I dancing in equilibrium,
I think I made piece with alone.

We are all racing birds;
we win just to be caged.
I don't know if you've heard,
but all the world's a stage.

I tread the rigid boards
and bend myself instead.
Another curtain call;
another ego fed.

The limelight comes and fades;
the sweat falls from my brow
now everybody cheers,
another perfect show.

You will never make it,
you know that this is true.
The flowers on this stage
will die along with you.

Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.