Lighthouse Artistry

The surgical mask that you willingly wear on your face, is a form of vocal prohibition that desensitizes a human being.

The arc of darkness is a tesseract.

Anyways...

Words are a form of striation.

Inside the Singapore Prisons, there is minimal sense of false security, for pre-conditioned: shelter, ration and, recidivism.

According to hear-say, it takes about 5 dollars of the local currency here, to maintain the welfare of 1 inmate.

These are the basic items.

  • Lodging.
  • Nutrition.
  • The soap which is meant for the animals from SPCA.
  • Miscellaneous.

The cookees are akin to the workers, in any hierarchical organization that of the depends of the cogs and carburetor of awareness in an exploitative manner, to run their sub-program.

Law offices, temples, banks, government bureaucratic agencies and malls are money laundering here in Singapore.

You took my palette away right?

Gaangaaa kay chanda kay saath, main saree duniyaaa ko aaag legaungaa…

With Ganga’s donation, I will light the whole world on fire.

Yeh humaray raangon kee barsaat ki holi hai.

Here is my kaleidoscopic, blazing monsoon of colours.

Phoolon, taaroon, sitaaron, aaakon, aur ladkion mein kya farq hai?

What is the difference between, flowers, stars, music instruments, vision and women?

Zulfhon ki dhuaan, ek canvas ke jaisaa hai.

The smoke that rises from the abyssal rage of a canvas is akin to the darkness of burning sky.

Aag naal khel kay, vaalon ki samhjothaa benawaan, saafeth dhood ki nadiya ki jaisi…

The danceplay with fire, and each conversation with the raw messiness of a woman’s crown, which is Lanakeally like the Lakmé river.

Kitaabon ki vashnaa, ek aaurat ki bhekhudi ki jaisi hai, lekin iski chaaya chaand kay aaghey hai.

The aroma of a woman's wild senselessness, curves page by page, yet, the shadow of her axis, graces ahead of the moon, and the reflections of the galaxy.

Uski, vaalon ki jhalak, baadal ki chaahat hai jo naazouk se baarish ki terran aathi hai.

A strand of her hair, is like the whispering longing of the clouds, a raindrop, her tears.

Raaton mein, woh aapni haathon ko sejaathi hai, chaandi kay gungunahein day naal, saap aur sapno uski kalam hai.

In the eve of the night, her hands are tempered by the lingering moonlight, where the serpentine laces of her scars, dream and glow radiatively.

Ghoonghat kay petakai paani kay saath, waqt ko ferma rehi hai, kay, tumharey naseeb mein merah naam likhaa hai ya nehi?

What is not there, is what elucidates the creativity.

Maybe, the ruffled, keratinesque sky is an abstract crown which drapes over the rattling retina gaze of possibilities and impossibilities.

The quivering pines, and the shards of glass that splinter from a heart of the apocalypse, is just a kiss from the breathe of a rose.

A leave that flirts with a zephyr, is a flame from a candleless wick.