The girl in his dreams was real,
the sleep in his eyes might not be.

She, who wandered through the ruins of my heart...

She, who wandered through the ruins of my heart,
has finally made my ruins her part.
She, who once said that my heart is her heart,
has finally made the wish to depart.
She, who kept looking at me from everywhere,
has made my memories her part.
She, who had come to never return,
never returned from the depths of my heart,
She, who wondered about the state of my mind,
has become a state of my heart.

She, whose patience became my worship, made me ascetic by heart,
She, who made promises with eyes,
Has finally made the promise to depart,
She, who once gave life to my dreams,
has finally stolen sleep from my eyes.
She, in whose forgetting; I forgot -
that letters written to me were all from heart.

She, who wondered
through the ruins of my heart,
has finally made
my ruins - her part.

- Syed Rehan

Out of the doors of my home.

I remember when I was a little kid, not so little; when I was 13 - a very ordinary boy of a small town; aspiring to come out of the doors of his home. I'd see my friends going out - out of the doors of their homes, to play cricket or roam the streets together. I didn't. I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to go out of the doors of my home like many of my friends. I grieved it. And every other day I tried to break the chains.

I remember Zafar*, one of the only friends I had that time, say to me that he is tired of everything. I sympathised. Though I didn't actually understand 'tired of everything'.

And I didn't mean to even give it a mere thought. I had so many other things to do; play trumps and card games, keep breaking, repairing, and again breaking my personal computer - personal after my sister was admitted in a residential school to pursue her higher secondary education.

What bothered me was the mere thought of going out of those doors and walk out in freedom, and wander. Life was ahead. Some courage, some steps, and some permissions ahead.

At some point in life, that I cannot clearly recall, I moved out of those doors; I wandered. I remember wandering didn't turn out to be what I had thought of its being as a child. I had many thoughts, thoughts of death being the end that has to come, but seldom would I have ever thought of life and its course. Its course.

Wandering and freedom.

Today, I have been wandering and free for the 7th year. In a strange city, for some strange reasons and like a stranger.
I remember what Zafar used to say. I can now understand what Zafar was tired of and why Zafar was 'tired of everything'.
It took some time to understand. And it took some time to get tired.

And it took some time to reach back, this time wanting to self-lock myself, and stay inside the doors of my home. There's freedom of which I am a slave. There's wandering - I dont understand.

You understand. There's a night so dark. I believe there'll be a day so bright. That this spring is the first and the last that would ever have to accompany hankering and paining.

But there's this freedom of which I am a slave. That's hoping to be free again. In its own way. A day when I will wake up in the morning and be so energetic and fresh that I can again pull the strings of heart.

And this silence that haunts me. And this hollowness in the center of my chest - that keeps expanding and vaccuming me of everything.

Where do I go? There where the sun rises.

- Syed Rehan

*Name changed.

Preyed upon.

I reckon that something preys my heart,
as I feel a little more heartless everyday,
my arcane quietude, sometimes;
suddenly breaks into soliloquy, and
then I am - to myself, a familiar stranger,
a little more heartless, since
preyed upon.

But that is not my fault;
not of my stars or the lessening of my heart,
For, it has been preyed by a beast
that sought its love in its depths,
though it may never find the love,
it might be the tastiest in its feast.

- Syed Rehan

Sometimes sad; that I silently waited.

Sometimes sad; that I silently waited
for Him to come down and
replace hardwork with miracles.
Now I am wide-awake,
that now I can wait
a little longer than before,
a little patient than usual.
The wait is, it will always be,
but, now that I have opened my eyes,
I am meant to see.
For, blind are the eyes,
that don't watch 'em lies;
lies I told everyone,
before I knew I was lying.
For some bad times,
there is an agony in these lines, and
for some good ones,
there is a worshipping in signs.
And I, suddenly tonight,
began talking to myself,
And I wonder if I am intoxicated;
only by the colours of these wines.

- Syed Rehan

When they come.

When they come to read our poems;
tell them what has made us a poet,
when they come to listen our songs,
tell them they'll never forget its lines.
We've become, more or less, a slave;
tell them their memories are alive,
And more or less, that we need to say;
ask them to reach our grave someday,
when they come to find their answers,
tell them what has made us this way,
but when they come, whenever it be,
hold them near and let them stay.

We are afraid of separation;
come what may,
but when they come, ask them why -
did we have to feel like a stranger today,
this is life, tell them this,
that we have come into your heart,
only to ask what can take us away -
far into the lands that we may never again
have to burst into tears by what you say.
So, when they come, ask them what -
took them away; so far today.

- Syed Rehan