'All the world's a stage' -William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'If you forget me' - Pablo Neruda

I want you to know

one thing.

You know how this is:

if I look

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window,

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly

you forget me

do not look for me,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,

the wind of banners

that passes through my life,

and you decide

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots,

remember

that on that day,

at that hour,

I shall lift my arms

and my roots will set off

to seek another land.

But

if each day,

each hour,

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness,

if each day a flower

climbs up to your lips to seek me,

ah my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated,

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,

my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine

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' From my archive ' -Wasif Ahmad

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The painting is titled as: "Anarchy"

                                                                                           -Wasif Ahmad

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'Reflections' -Wasif Ahmad

I asked him,

in the silence of the whispers,

in cold eeriness of the unknown,

Of 'what' I am?

He rocked in his chair

smoked his death,

and spoke nil.

Assuming a neglected kin.

I stepped a foot ahead,

asked yet aloud,

'Am I not merry?'

still silence smiled in victory-

'Let it be'

I could melt to tears

just as I should be,

caring none as such-

of a failure of 'he'.

I could soar with laughter,

but suits not me.

Fetters on feet pull along,

playing an elegy- a mournful song.

Move now,

yet death is passe.

My wish, my illusion...

Help me,

Plead I.

He rose up-

as I saw myself rising.

And said he-

'Life's a reflection,

and so are you.'

                                                                       -Wasif Ahmad

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'Ginger' -Wasif Ahmad

Love me not,

for the sake of love;

Caress me not, like an old-found love.

I lay latent- untouched,

to feel a smell, so near;

I, rise my limb- my body,

to touch thee robe- a distant.

Hath I wished, but no-

sea depth farther, it seemed;

I fall back, surrendered

to a reality- like a ginger-

sometimes sweet- sometimes bitter.

-Wasif Ahmad.                  .

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