Wednesday, March 23, 2011

On Dreamland

This place is mysteriously bizarre,
like in a midnight rush hour
thousands pass and come by,
uncontrolled laughter, and
bellows of excitement (or pity?)
Yet everybody is doing something,
things I can’t really figure out
hazy blurs of running men,
skirmishes and dancing tribes.
But none of this unfocuses me.
As I glide towards my orange sign
and I stand beside her
and she takes me away.

Monday, March 14, 2011

The Game of Fire and Feathers

Amid the blaze of fire,
she dances alive,
bowed down upon the presence
of fiery creatures,
which, casted, burn and smoke
and cry their spirits out
majestically following the music’s flow.
A feathered mask hides her face,
and conceals more than a girl’s game,
for, yes! she dances alive,
but in her steps she carries
the whole weight of the World
finely woven in the colours
of feathers of dead ancient birds. 

Friday, March 4, 2011

Highland cries

A ray of light breached the clouds
and blinded my sore eyes
and on turning I saw the tall
valiant figure of a Highland man.

Not perceived by his sight
and sneaking through gentle grass
I silently followed this fierce lad
and saw there was nothing he could lack.

The long red squared kilt was crossed
by a leather coated maze and spear
and drops of blood of unlucky redcoats
dripped through savagely wounded legs.

And the clouds dispersed and I saw;
behind the hill, a vast army of clans
had gathered in this year of Our Lord
seventeen hundred and forty five.

Highland warriors held their stand
urged by the call of Stuart’s House
to claim their rightful throne, once
bitterly torned clans joined in arms.

The Cadence to Arms, the final Albion
shout and the valiant first strike.
Rivers of redcoat blood now drown
the injured and deceased alike.

But Bonnie Prince Charles wished more
and seeked only his Kingdom come.
And spirits and ideals left aside
the Stuart House shows Scotland his back.

Alone, unprotected, forsaken and betrayed
hundred of Highland warriors offer their lives
bleeding and hurting, crying for a cause,
an idea that, for a few, could be left to die.

(This was the first poem I ever wrote. Be merciful :) . Sorry to the Scots for any historical inaccuracy.)