The Power of Love poem by waza

The Power of Love poem by waza
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1

parents graves mohomed shakir and shamim shakir ar rehamatbad shia cemetry



wretched and ravaged behind the walls
todays' humanity and it's pitfalls
underneath fierce emotions, hell's gateway
the blood, drop for drop
my hearts' tears staccato, beat matching beat
and my soul falls to her knees
a moments' defeat...

steel don't shudder, I hear a close distant whisper
there are ways and means of coping and defense
the lost innocence, a tear worth crying
let it's splash gently fall on tender hearts
they are worth saving

innocence virginity, the last hymen broken
turn the fucking back into loving
coal hearts soon quit beating
escoriated vault walls bearing scars
slip slide, but after all the essence
the reason for being
is to nuture the genesis, hope against hope
neucleant bursting, evolution microcosmic generation... don't underestimate..

the Power Of Love

Well this Waza , the hard hitting Waza, and we share a rare relationshipof mutual trust, to be given a password to her buzz , and allowed to post a picture, and another reason too, is a pretty trusting thing to do in todays times, as photographer with an eye for the curious , I keep to myself without an iota of voyeuristic adventurism, I cannot change the perception of my wife towards Waza, but that is a kindered women feeling , I am not surprised by Indian women, they will call their husbands scums, what not, but will not share their almost dirty plate with another woman, but there are some magnanimous women, the soft hearted and acquiesing type of women , who realise the transistory nature of life and the games it plays on us, let emotions take its course and allow the other woman as part of a marital menagerie and live happily ever after.

I know an actor friend who has a wife and his wife has accepted the other woman.

The other woman is the most dreaded word in the lexicon of an Indian womans heart, my dad was snared balls and feet by the other woman, he bought her a house behind Taj Mahal Hotel, he was told that her two kids were fathered by him, but later she confessed it was the work of the house mason.

Such can be the other woman, my mom went through periods of self guilt and when my kid brother Firdaus was born in 1975 I was at my mothers bedside, and the nurses thought I was her youngest brother, such was my devotion for my mother, my dad was in the bower of the other woman.

And he was far gone in love for this woman with a commercial background and a commercial bent of mind, my dad realised all this far too late , when he discovered the nature of her various liasons , when he came across evidence pictorial and in writing , that hinted at misplaced fatherhood of her children when she was at her home town , dad I believe was seaching for a bottle of Vicks Vaporub.And Hell broke loose.

And Dad finally moved away , bequeathing the house on the 5th floor in a building behind Taj Mahal, the irony of Betrayal and Love cloisterd as sin and repentance behind Taj Mahal.

But my Dad never forgot the two children , whom at one time he had loved more than us.

My Dad died a broken hearted man, he was far too good looking, he took refuge in God , he parayed the Namaaz , like I have never seen a human pray, he begged for forgiveness and invoked God to save him and his family.

My mother by now had lost the battle and a nice woman she did not appreciate Gods divine interpretation, she became nasty, for the years of sufferings and would hit back, and the usual, "Did I not tell you she would throw you out "kind of tantrum.. Dad died in pain, he died several times, his breathing would stop , my brother Shakil who really sacrificed his entire life for us , he is younger and more responsible than I am, would rush him to the clinic next door for cleaning his congested and suffocated lungs.

But one final attack on a Friday when I was at the flea market , he breathed his last at Thawanis Nursing Home behind Taj Mahal Hotel.

My mom died soon after , now they lie side by side at the Shia cemetry at Rehmatabad, here I must mention that when Dad died I was broke and he was buried in a normal mound kind of grave called Kacchi Kabar , when my mom died I had abour RS 50000, with me , a night before I had got this money , had collected it from a client and bought it home, she was alive and asked me for whom it was.. I jokingly said it was for her.. she smiled, I paid Rs 5000 each month to my mom so when she was to be buried the Maulana Waqar Mehndi told me that we would have to bury her at another end, I lost my cool and threw a wad of money on the face of the grave digger in anger and disgust, the Maulana fearing my wrath told the gravedigger to dig the empty place next to my Dad, and this is no fairy tale, while digging he came across bones of a female body, here there was a relgious technical problem, I told the Maulana to let her bones lie by the feet of my Mom, thus lie buried my mom my dad and another woman.

And I utilised the entire Rs 50000 on the granite mausoleum I built for them.. also paid the money for making the graves permanent, and all of us brothers and sisters got together and called each other United Seven Shakirs , a month later and this is not a property issue but some religious faux pas of a funereal ritual on the part of my wife instigated by a conniving cousin from Lucknow , my verbal fight with my brother Shakil, and we parted , all of us, and we have the same blood flowing in our veins... we behave as step siblings, and this is the dreadful part of Humanity.

And the greater hurt is that even our kids dont recognize each others kids.

And I write this for my unborn grandchild.

the moral of this story ... power of love in death..and after death.