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Wednesday, December 19, 2018

The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen.



Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening—the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.She crept along trembling with cold and hunger—a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but—the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when—the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when—the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire."Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love."Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety—they were with God.But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall—frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.


"My Eyes For You"



I wish you could see,
The hues that circle the sun when it shines,
A glowing halo surrounding the face of a pretty bride,
I wish, darling, you could see the shades — 
The colours that bring me delight.

"Dear, with your eyes, you see,
But not me, for I have no light, blind as I am.
Go on then, sing me a song,
Tell me what brings your bright to my dark,
Paint your rainbow over my night."

You ask me what colours mean, 
Shades of blue, orange and green.
You sigh and moan, trying to trust
The hues of something beyond your grasp.
Darling, let me show you now, 
What a colour feels like and how;

That sense of pride when little you achieve, 
Feels like you conquered the 
Rest of the world —
Royalty, honour, pride and praise, 
Violet is the colour of grace.

Desire — if it but had a name,
Surging through your veins, sans shame;
Making you both evil and Saint-
The feelings, them unnamed,
Red, then is the colour of desires.

Everything lost, and when deeper they drown,
They tell you that it feels so blue,
But trust me when I tell you-
To hold on, a stronger rope;
That Blue is but a colour of hope.

Solace, when it grasps your mind,
You transcend from fantasy to reality,
Unraveling wisdom and spiritual sense —
A distant prayer calming a storm of beasts,
Indigo is the colour of internal peace.

The colour of day, when dreams come alive, 
The smell of sunshine, orchids and pine, 
The feel of rejoice, warmth and comfort-
The colour of happiness, joy and smiles, 
Yellow is but a colour so divine.

Everything joyous, compassionate, yet abstract, 
Warm hugs out of sheer passion, 
The echo of honest feelings and a voice that makes you smile— 
A voice resonating with the memories you hold close,
This, darling, is the colour of Orange.

Remember the downpour last December?
Birds chirping, and the scent of quenched mud?
Or the song of togetherness the grasshoppers sang in zest?
Remember the feel of my hand in yours?
The touch of nature, that, darling, is Green.




*The Haunted Sojourn*


*The Haunted Sojourn*
Ever since the day she tried to be a home for someone else,
She lost the way to her own.
The alley that echoed with the giggles of her childhood,
Lost the shining rays of hope.
So she walked back, moments and miles,
Trying to catch hold of what was left behind-
The paths embedded with sweet memories;
All ashes and bones.
She wanted to recollect,
But whatever she touched,
Blew past her reach.
Mocking her, the ashes spoke;
"We longed for your touch,
When we were whole,
But someone else you adored,
Hence we marked our rim,
Which you cannot trim,
So cry now, O' thee!
On your fate shadowed."
She smiled in response,
Skunked with defeat
and echoed in that hallow,
For one last time,
Her dulcet cry;
Shaped in the bellow
of a wounded Lion.


“He stepped down,



“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”



Even start.



“If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing everything maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”
― Charles Bukowski, Factotum


You are not the first



You are not the first
that I had ever lost.
You are not the last
that I would ever love.

You are not the first
who came and lied.
You are not the last
that I would ever trust.


Red lips and weird faces.


Red lips and weird faces.
Star-like eyes and no traces.
Benevolent ways and eminently wise.
Little hell and little paradise.

Timeless beauty but compassionate.
Gold-like bright but great.
No wings but flies high.
Little hell and little paradise.


Tuesday, December 18, 2018

ایک وحشت سی ہم پہ طاری تھی



ایک وحشت سی ہم پہ طاری تھی

دوست داری جو خو ہماری تھی

 کیا وہی دل ہے آج بھی جس میں

بے قراری ہی بے قراری تھی

 اک طرف دل تھا زخم آلودہ

اک طرف عقل کی سواری تھی

کتنا ظالم تھا التفات اس کا

کتنی دلکش ستم شعاری تھی

 اُن کے آنسو بھی آپشنل نکلے

اور محبت بھی اختیاری تھی

 جب ثمر بار تھیں مری شاخیں

مستقل مجھ پہ سنگ باری تھی

 میں نے مانا کہ میری بھول تھی وہ

ہاں مگر بھول کتنی پیاری تھی

 کون تھے وجہِ افتخار نہ پوچھ

کِن سے منسوب میری خواری تھی

 مجھ کو راغب ملے تھے ایسے دوست

دشمنوں سے بھی جن کی یاری تھی


کون دے گا؟


کرب میں گُزرے لمحات کا حساب کون دے گا؟
میرے بے رونق چہرے کو تاب کون دے گا؟

یوں جو میری ناؤ ڈبو کے چلے ہو تم
بتلاؤ جینے کو سانسیں زیر ِآب کون دے گا؟

کر تو چلے ہو ہجر کی کوٹھڑی میں بند مجھ کو
باہر جو نکلنا چاہوں تو باب کون دے گا؟

اب تک جو ظلم ڈھائے ہیں تو نے مجھ پر
ذرا سوچو! روزِ محشر ان کا جاب کون دے گا؟

کنارہ جو کبھی کر گئیں تم اے دُرِّ ناسُفتہ
مجھے دریں صورت اپنی تشاب کون دے گا؟

ہوں تِشنہِ محبت، کرتا ہوں تشدد خود پر
لوگو! مجنوں کا پارسؔ کو خطاب کون دے گا؟


Being strong doesn’t mean you don’t feel pain.


Being strong doesn’t mean you don’t feel pain. It means you feel it and try to understand it so you can grow from it.........



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