I thought words have some miraculous power to communicate.
I thought human hearts can hear the whisper of eternal love.
I was wrong.
Human body is a better tool.
But religion and some sefish genes kept our bodies and hearts  apart.
I knew religions are weapons of mass destruction and you worship some god who is always merciful to you but malicious to me.
And I know how weapons of mass destruction become a religion.
Your words heal my cancerous thoughts,
yet you chose to play  with the poison and cyanide of whims.

People are fueling rockets nowadays.
They are chasing ghosts of Mars,
yet my villagers have only a nominal hospital and no good doctors.
I too dream about the exotic grasslands of alien stars
though there is no school for my autistic brothers.
Spaceships hold a fascination for me,
but I also have the fear of atomic annihilation.
I also suffer from racist abomination.
Wings of a butterfly are always fascinating to me
though my feet are deeply rooted in the mire of an infected shore,
and a polluted sea lies before me.

Imagine a world destroyed by glamorous  weapons
and  a prolonged period of nuclear winter is prevailing
when your eyes and dreams have become radioactive.
Cockroaches are reported to be the fittest creature in this scenario.
Imagine a world without enough food and water.
Will everyone of us become a gladiator?
Will only the cannibals survive the disaster?
Imgine a world engulfed by mushroom clouds.
Will you compose the poetry of carnival?
Will cannibals kiss their girls?

I am the loneliest planet in the universe.
There are no creatures in my rivers.
Only a tree among the mountains declares
the presence of life.
Some metallic animals toll my loneliness.
Each of my metallic friends has a natural knife.
Sometimes they test the sharpness of their knives
in my flesh, but I take no offense.
I have been waiting for fifty million years with the hope that
someone like me will find me in my cosmic loneliness,
but planets cannot come near other planets
without jeopardizing their existence
or without committing suicide.
Once, crossing a light-year,I took a suicidal leap
heading towards a bright mate,
but my mate considered it an attempt to ******.

Millions of miles away the star is
a natural habitat of flames.
Beaming beautiful rays of the sun
are the result of some cosmic games.
Life itself is the result of distance
but nearness to the stars will bring dire consequence.
You are my distant star.
Whenever I try to get near you,
my existence burns.

Plucking out my eyes I thought I would send them to you.
You must not think of my blindness
because after seeing you I can see nothing anymore.
You hijacked my mind
and the skeleton of my body hangs on the branches of
an ancient shadow tree.
After watching you walking on a lonely road,
I think I am no more.
My soul has gone mad
And there is no ecstasy.
I declare an existential bankruptcy.

Me and my inner child

My inner child craves light
but I seek darkness deeper than the human body
deeper than the alien universe.
My blind child searches for the family tree
but I desire oblivion more manifest than death and nothingness.
My deformed child loves culture
but I want truth more naked than nature.
The irony is really great –
My child is like a lame lion
and I am like a dark butterfly
spluttering in the mist,
beating my feeble wings in nothingness.

Holding you hand was like touching a cool star.
Kissing your lips was like kissing an unknown ocean.
But there was no love in you,
just blind submission to the animal aspiration.
There was a heart inside the beast
which you choose not to notice.
I am afraid I didn't want to touch a heartless star.
I didn't want to bathe in a blind ocean.
Now I want to cut my hand
so that I cannot touch anything again.
And I want to burn my brain.

The flowers bloom in the mystery region between light and darkness.
Crossing thousands of light-years the stars touch them with their brightness
of cosmic love.
The moon is maddened by their fragrance.
You see their relatives in the distant space are not only a few.
Those dying and bright cosmic rays generated life in the mud.
So the flowers that bloom in the mud have ****** intimacy with the stars.
Though the flower rots and the intimacy wanes,
the flowers of mud drink the dew of stars.

Alam Sayed

My dormant dreams remained in the primordial soup.
As an amoeba I dreamt about you eons ago.
In the sacred hollow of my mind lives your shadow.
Scrawny leaves of memory in the gutter of my brain
remain fossilized.
I waited for you in the Precambrian mud.
I roamed in the puzzling field of Cambrian jungle.
I dreamt about you being sheltered inside the body of a dinosaur;
Among acid rains my dreams were burned.
I searched for you amid the cry of stars.
My dreams were washed away during Noah's flood.
I wept for you near the stones of pyramids.
I reluctantly cut the throats of my blood brothers
in the Colosseum of Rome,
and fought the ****** battles with Spartacus;
and I saw our blood bloom as red flowers
in the reddened field of Capua.

I didn’t want to be a witch hunter
in the muddy medieval jungles,
and I didn’t want to be a gladiator of modern times.
I didn’t want to be a vampire of corporate age
******* the blood of my postmodern friends.
Perhaps, you will never be born in the craters of
ever hungry tyrants.
And, perhaps, in the world of fanatics and *******
you should never be born.