Never out of sight and yet long gone

I am the delight of a muddy street enraptured by the sleet.
I am the conspiracy of a moonless night where lovers meet.

I am the carelessness of a damsel whose feet found music,
I am the verve of a bird garnering for the future stick after stick.

I am the aroma of a windless afternoon where cares retreat,
I am the rustle of a soulless leaf beneath your hasty feet.

I am the blush of a bloom bedecked by the morning dew,
I am the joy of a cloud embraced by the familiar rays anew.

I am the splendour of a rainbow; incomplete, incongruous and yet a rapture drawn,
I am the simple pleasures of life, never out of sight and yet long gone.

There was none

On tracks of steel, cramped space and body awry,
A man, with a bag precariously poised on his left, I could descry.

Amazement led to the discovery of mirth,
A stance sideways and legs stretched out wide, to every movement alert.

Mirth allowed grievance to creep in, for fellow beings as an afterthought,
Handgrip above, and not the deportment and space, use he ought.

Steels grinding to a scratchy halt, and a twitch in the posture so fun,
Bitterness then dawned, where there should be right – there was none.

I still have a dream...

In an era of struggle and strife, I had a dream,
Into utopia I would segue and peace I would glean.

Impossible they admonished, methods would yield no good,
Lessons from experiments, by truth I stood.

Of prosperity and of choice, I did hope,
Simplicity was my motto, nadirs of despair I would cope.

Through your soul I breathe, through your eyes I deem,
In an era of struggle and strife, I still have a dream.

Oh I just love looking at him!

So uncouth! So condescending! So unfit!
Blurted out an agitated Annie,
Flair he lacks, chivalry he has not a bit.

Marie- befuddled at visions so ugly,
Oh look at his face- inundated with scars,
A sight grotesque and so unsightly.

He has no standing and he holds no fame,
Dreamy eyes bedecked Angie,
To things of importance he holds no claim.

Wild calls from within didn’t sting,
Maggie broke out of a spell cast,
Oh I just love looking at him!


P.S - I was inspired by what a dear friend inadvertently said.

Daw they call me

In the hush of this lonely night I lay in disdain,
Not of life or people, but of this immutable pain.

Free thoughts and free minds I, did and will, aspire,
Tears are for the weak, courage for those who follow and admire.

Bereavement or despair, my strife is life long,
My voice may not quell your agony, but in your tenacity I find myself strong.

Bars of iron encumber, kindred spirits propel,
From nadirs of solitude, to the enchantment of heavenly gospel.

Daw they call me, my heart seethes in ignominy,
Eyes await a dawn, of new horizons and harmony.

- Of what has been a life of struggle and and a voice of hope - Aung San Suu Kyi

Quest for Paro

My olfactory glands (and related glands) do not always comply with the normal rules of nature’s propensity towards well-being and such was my state as I embarked on my next trip. The regulars on this page shall sigh in anguish and repetition – ‘Since when did normal rules of nature apply to your body?’ Anyways, as I boarded Air India flight en route to Bangalore, little did I know, it would turn out to be my quest for Paro.

The Beaver Beckons..

Bangalore was a long transit and I was enchanted and entertained as well as ensconced by Beaver. Yes, the one with claws and buck tooth. This time I also noticed keratin effusion of the rough variety. Beaver also ensured that I was well rhymed with all crevices and nooks at Bangalore International Airport, thus ensuring a safe passage in my quest for Paro.

As dusk began to gather, I headed for Kolkata (with a brief excursion over Hyderabad). May be time was my nemesis during my overnight stay at City of Joy, but first impressions failed to enchant me towards this Eden. However I was enchanted by a woman next to me, perhaps entrusting her house for the first time to the untrustworthy care of her husband which entailed statements like ‘Gas theek se band karr dena,Khidkhi khula matt chodna,theek se khaana khaana…’

And the Fairy Tale...

The next day began a fairy tale, as my flight (Druk Air) segued through heavens, glided over lush valleys and gently caressed through the clouds – and I was finally with Paro.

Paro airport is in Paro District(one of the three districts – Thimphu,Paro and Phuentsholing not requiring a special pass for Indians arriving in Bhutan). The journey from Paro to Thimphu meanders through valleys of captivity and enchantment, through hills of intrigue and passion and through rivulets of purity and devotion.

Of the time afforded by work, I did saunter through mystical valley that lends itself in to Thimphu City. A quaint landscape hugged closely by hills, romancing with the flirty clouds; Thimphu is culturally ‘very much’ Bhutan with men and women – their gho and kira respectively and yet as dusk settles over this sleepy town, the night life propels in to being. Thimphu and perhaps Bhutan seems almost like a home away from home with Indian influences everywhere from food to usage of Hindi.

Colour and Simplicity...

This is a country of colour and a country of the sacrosanct. The chorrtens,stupas and monasteries dot this landscape and the prayer flags add splendour to charm. An interesting note on the prayer flags as pointed out by my cab driver – Ugyen – the flags are etched with mantras and as they flutter in blissful winds of Bhutan, they convey a prayer from the mortals to the Almighty. The colours – five of them (red,blue,green,yellow and White) represent the five elements.

Simplicity is reflected in every strain of what is Bhutanese. Red Rice and Ema Datshi( Chilly in Cheese Gravy) spoil your palette, leaving you craving for more. There is a smile of warmth everywhere you cast your eyes. There is also warmth in the chill Himalayan breeze that hugs like one of its own.

A Dream...

In my time in Bhutan, I also saw a dream. I could feel the bliss of spirituality and I was walking through clouds. I saw 109 celestial stupas speaking a language of divinity cleansing me of my worldly ordeals. I could feel heaven filter through me, straining impurity and infusing goodness of life. I was in Dochu La, about 45 minutes drive from Thimphu.

Shangri La....

In a world which holds time precious, Bhutan is the best kept secret perhaps the mythical Shangri La. As the forces of nature concoct a mystical mixture, time stands still perhaps in awe, perhaps in a trance. Forces of global economy and growth have not yet bewitched the region and time seems to have entrapped the simplicity of life and yes, bestowed a smile on every Bhutanese.

Quest for Paro took me down several paths, through unknown territories and magical landscapes and then it dawned – this quest is life long.

Check out the album -

Quest for Paro - Bhutan

My past you shall descry..

Where the lawn lays unkempt and the street goes awry,
Behind murk of uncaring time, my past you shall descry,
My memory betrays, my mind has gone numb, Who am I?

I have been your reflection; I have been your raconteur,
I have shown you your soul, read your mind and known your allure.

Opulence I have witnessed, tales of poverty have saddened,
Exuberance of youth has elated; rashness of mind maddened.

I have been privy to tender whispers of care,
I have withstood wails of agony and anguished in your empty stare.

I have been cynosure of care and have been a chronicle of apathy,
I have scaled summits of pride and plumbed nadirs of atrophy.

Where the lawn lays unkempt and the street goes awry,
Behind murk of uncaring time, my past you shall descry.
My memory betrays, my mind has gone numb, Who am I?

I observe in protest

My heart pains, agony writhes my conscience,
An hour in darkness I observe in protest,
And long hours under hot sprinkling, without any prescience.

The ruthless felling -contorts and strains my being,
I raise my voice, argue making my presence felt,
No scruples encumber as I set fonts in ink unflinching.

Random scraps from mindless indiscretion,
My soul stirs with wrath failing to comprehend,
My body embroils in laze mindful of the tactless jettison.

Let us strive to do our bit for Mother Earth.

Sweet Summers of Yore

A fruity aura that floods memory and bedazzles,
A joy that palpitates with sweet summers of yore.
An aura that seduces, teases and puzzles,
A feeling that blinds the conscious and makes the soul soar.

Colours of pleasure and a texture of elation,
Colours of blush daubed across by a flirting sun.
Shouts in earnest and of perspiration,
Livelihood perched on head - basket of marvel and fun.

Titillating the tongue, a heavenly ordain,
Sometimes sweet and sometimes oh-so mildly and pleasantly tartly,
It is that time of year again,
Alphonso in all verve, joys limitlessly and pleasures profusely!

Sleepless in Frankfurt

March 2009 enters my diary of life and stays there for the sheer exhaustion that it subjected me to. My limbs had started reacting to commands with a marked time lag, my brain took longer to process images transmitted through retina(rubbing my eyes couple of times helped sometimes) and yes my spinal cord had started providing able back up(though it never told the brain what it did when the brain was away).

Anyways, in this tousled framework, my profession led me to Germany. March had subjected my corpus to such a state of repair that a cramped seat at Qantas Boeing 747 and the 12 hour flight journey could not provide enough deterrent for the slumber rekindle again. And I slept like a baby.









6th April 2009 and I greeted the German sun and the land of Euro, with a tired but pleasant smile. A sleepy town of Neu-Isenburg, about 10 KM in the outskirts of Frankfurt, was where I was put up. Spring was beginning to peek in from behind the wintery shadows, as lively flowers of yellow and pink shivered in the chilly breeze.
Neu-Isenburg, a small patch of land with a population in low 10 Thousands, is blessed with two Indian restaurants(primarily attributed to the Pakistani presence in the area) and one Sub-way joint. For the starters, that was a welcome relief, for German vegetarian food – which I am sure – if given ample time to explore would suit the palate, from the first looks seemed to contain indiscriminate selection of arbitrary leaves and grasses and generous portions of cheese. On that note, ‘plain’ water was hard to come by as well – by default water meant the liquid (H2O) infused with miserly portions of Carbon Dioxide thus rendering it ‘sparkling’.

Of the limited time I could afford, I did saunter around Frankfurt. The city is a miscellany of ancient Europe concocted with the role of German Financial capital, rendering it unique in its own sense. The river Main splits it open, offering splendid views of the city. The western sky is busy with concrete and steel structures while the bank of the river is dotted with the idyllic charm of Europe- cathedrals, cobbled roads, narrow lanes and beautiful buildings including Romer or the City Hall. The roads are enshrined with restaurants and street side vans – which will serve you well as long as you have a taste for it.








The city is splattered all over with beautiful architectural sights, random fountains and a quaint allure. A tram line walks right through the city which adds exotic to the exquisite.









Right in the center of the city is the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof or the Central Railway station , run by Deutsche Bahn and offering a gateway to Europe – you can imagine how tempting that is. Deutsche Bahn also offers bicycles on rent for an excursion around the city. Back to my favourite part of the city – the river Main, dotted with beautiful sidewalks and flowers of spring. The colours of spring and the air of freshness rejuvenated my limbs and infused verve in to my aching psyche. The river is also lively with fauna as well. The boats along the river double up as restaurants as well.
















The jaunt was short yet pretty. The images are few yet vivid and fun. The air of spring and colours of life, the memories are forever. As the trip came to an end and as I was leaving for Singapore, I emptied the contents of my backpack – laptop and purse for scanning at the airport. My spinal cord instructed me to carry my bag through, without scanning. The dazed looking security official pounced on me to scan my bag too, perhaps alarmed for a split second. My spinal cord does share some secrets with my brain afterall.

Leaking dirt in the rain...

I am the little girl across the street, tanned skin and in the torn blue frock,
With dirty nails and callused hands, sight which makes you run amok.

I am the despicable countenance leaking dirt in the rain,
Apathy behind shades and windows save the pain.

I am the stench, from which you wriggle your nose in disdain,
But cherish the view and award bioscopes of the same.

I am the child of poverty, with tears reeking of an unfulfilled wish,
I am the child with stretched and lifeless hands, which you avoid in fear of a blemish.

I am your reality; I am part of you as you are of me,
I think of you and admire you, do you ever ponder over me?

Mumbai Diaries - Kala Ghoda aur Gori Kapoor

Three seas and one strait (and yes plenty of other perennial and non-perennial water bodies) away I ponder over events which waft fresh in my memory in what, now, appears to be a distant corner of the time frame. Without meandering much over water bodies and their perennial state, let me rewind the reel of time to set the stage at Kala Ghoda Festival 2009.

As Jhansi and myself sauntered, in the oppressing heat of the mid-day sun – she effectively shielded me from any direct rays – the sun accidently discovered me – courtesy Snell’s law applied along the periphery of her body, we encountered paradise. A very contemplative looking David Sassoon- appreciating art perhaps – on the façade of the David Sassoon library, which never fails to inspire poetry. The building manifests rows of black columns, on the first floor, which lend in to proud high arches endowed in alternating white and yellow-brown stones. Against this background was the Kala Ghoda Festival.









Jhansi, donning an extra kilogram of verve compared to last time, was glee personified as we descried artifacts ranging from – Man on Rope, Ganesha made of spare bicycle parts(400 Kgs of them), a tall pyramid adorned with mugs and taps – now that beats me and yes a half decorated(with red glazed paper) balloon. Had the balloon been fully wrapped, it might not have met the guidelines to be there – lucky balloon!












However this particular piece at the festival stole my heart(considering that I have weakness for windows) -












A round at the Jehangir Art Gallery, where we appreciated art based on the quoted price(under the assumption that higher price would mean better art) and multiple rounds of chocolates – Mousse et al later, we met up with Ashish, who incidentally likes mirrors and being photographed through reflective properties of light. The day flashed by and yes sun cleverly rolled over sides to finally catch me unawares, and it was time to adieu to Kala Ghoda and my tall warrior cousin.

My Mumbai diaries were also endowed by secretive creatures like Beaver. Let me tell you about Beaver – very shy creature, remains quiet only when in burrows and ensconced in sleep, likes pruning claws (err nails), adores chocolates and yes loves the winds along the Arabian Sea. As Beaver and I, in deep tete-a-tete sauntered along streets of Bandra, we encountered magnificent whiteness. As my heart leaped, palpitating my entire Thoracic cavity, at the extreme suffering of this Leukoderma patient, my head swiveled propelled by some sudden realization by the efficient nerves along the spinal cord. ‘Haila Karishma Kapoor to bahut gori hain be’ – were the involuntary words that were led through by those same efficient blighters. The shock so severely affected my memory cells that I inadvertently missed on the promise made to Beaver – a splurge on Vada Pav!

As days drew to a close, my final stop was obeisance to Pinks and Giraffe. Pinks was her usual punctual self as examples of chivalry- Giraffe and myself turned up only an hour late. I have only the ADAG group to blame(check out Metro construction site at Saki Naka yourself).

The day of rude awakening was approaching – for I had to check to work soon – and this episode of Mumbai diaries was seeing its last chapters. On the penultimate day I had a surprise phone call from none other than the effervescent PC on his way to Mumbai from Baroda. A pact was made that we meet before the chapter ends. However that pact, unfortunately and hopefully, would have to be fulfilled only when Mumbai Diaries gets re-opened, the next time.

Mumbai Diaries - Smiles and Sunset

As I ponder, over the next set of incidents to narrate in this episode of Mumbai diaries, my soul fixates around the core set of people that made my trip replete with joy. This would entail we zoom in on my peregrination to the land of Her Highness of Pune – Pooh. En route the court, I caught up with ex-Patniites – Praharsh -The Philosopher and Priyanka. The philosopher had a tough time locating my whereabouts, not owing to any changes in my outward appearance, but due to the fact that at a traffic circle, I was at the side painted yellow and he, red. We circled the circle, yellow and red, and then red and yellow, till we eventually and inadvertently bumped in to each other, through no prior design of doing so.

The Philosopher promised me a safe passage to the court on his 25000cc Activa, profusely assuring me of no further circular confusions. Alas, The Philosopher turned to be colour blind, with a particular deficiency in detecting the colour Red (at this point I was, with my keen sense of observation, able to solve the traffic circle mystery as well). The Philosopher, I must inform the readers as a note, is an ardent stickler, to moral laws. This was evinced when he refused to bribe the Hawaldar and paid the full fine.

The court was where I next found myself ensconced. I must also let the readers know that Pooh had ordered goods exquisite quality and quantity which had to be lugged across the seas by noble subjects like Yours Truly. Banter session ensued, which only meant bashing for Yours Truly and mirth for Her Highness. As sunset sunk in to Her Highness’s territory, other creatures from the courtyard ventured in to the fiefdom. The Derivative Champ and Pooh-2 ushered in with a note of enthusiasm, joy and poking each other regularly and with ferocious intensity. Jet accompanied by his wife – Supersonic Jet, flew in next. What ensued could be largely kept out of the purview of public knowledge as face saving exercise for Yours Truly – more bashing obviously.

As Pune set over the horizon of time, memories shaped themselves.









However – one of the creatures of the Pune fiefdom had been left out- whom I caught while flying through Mumbai. Tweety accompanied by her tranquil chirp, was her enigmatic self.

The visit to Mumbai also enabled me to catch up with a huge bundle of SP Jain Janta as well as revisit some of Mumbai's charms.












Jigsaw, finally managing to get hooked up, was carrying future Mrs Jigsaw’s pictures, in various sizes, and yes was glowing on the prospects of a happy married life. Dream Lover, the Boston return Indian, was etching his way past the streets of Mumbai as well, in pursuit of a Mumbai Tea Party.

My first meeting with Jhansi, found her inexorably overworked and inextricably tired. As Mumbai winds set in by the bay and the sun sobered, energy seeped back in to this brave warrior. A round of chocolates and pastries did also add to spirit. But, what really pepped her was my incessant clicking and capturing pictures of supremely elegant quality – some of which showed evidence that her pony tail (oops hair) has a very aerodynamic design and her spectacles of supremely refractive material.











More in Next.

Mumbai Diaries - The Heady Concoction

Jan 24th, 2009 and the long awaited dawn – a harbinger of a sweet sojourn to Mumbai had finally arrived. The onset of the Year of the Ox (some prefer to call it Bull – in hope of a Bull Run) enabled me to cascade official with personal leaves.

Soon the Singapore Airlines flight hissed past the tranquil and dreamy landscapes of Sahyadris bedecked with clouds lazing in the late morning benign winter sun. The air smelt familiar yet like a distant dream- a heady concoction of nostalgia and warmth of being home. My bags were making their way past the X-ray machine, then with a screech, Mr Bhatti entered this dream and concoction had a smell of tobacco in it. With perhaps a jerk in to reality – I came to the senses that Mr Bhatti – a customs officer with Mumbai Chattrapati Shivaji International Terminus – did not approve of my camera,lenses et al entering Mumbai free of cost. After a lengthy debate with intermittent perusal of the obscure rule book – Mr Bhatti (not showing the least signs of exasperation) proffered three possible alternatives – 1. Leave camera at the airport 2. Pay duty at 35.7% of value above Rs 25,000 3. Bribe Mr Bhatti a nominal fee(however hand the fee to the Hawaldar). Option 3 looked lucrative. Mr Bhatti also offered me a tip as well (free of cost) – next time travel during peak hours which means Hawaldar may not notice the heavy equipments.

Dazed – I then proceeded to the taxi counter and indicated my preference for 2 taxis. The man behind the desk looked back, found 3 pairs of eyes looking back and wondered aloud the reason for 2 taxis for three people. On showing him our wide array of baggage – the guy remarked – ‘Iska double bhi hum ek taxi mein fit karr dega’

By now you must have realized that the heady concoction was making rounds somewhere in the stratosphere. No sooner did we trundle our way towards our good old abode at Thane, that the heady concoction was getting stronger again. For a fleeting moment – a moment of insanity – did I expect the lift doors to open automatically – it was only fleeting – let me assure you that.

Anyways, the moment had finally arrived, my dad encompassed the key between his index finger and thumb and pirouetted the same. The heady concoction was stronger than ever. The house, from the initial glimpses, was dapper enough and seemed well taken care of (by the neighbour). The next big moment was setting sights at my room – which incidentally was under locks and wraps beyond the bounds of human activities. The concoction suddenly crumbled under the effects of gravity – my room was a self sustaining eco-system. Spiders,Cob-webs, bugs and other exotic creatures - I was perhaps at the bottom of the food chain. The icing on the ecosystem was a happy pigeon family – right outside my window.

As you would have imagined – next few days mostly spent towards giving the house a heavy polish. This routine was disturbed with intermittent rounds to Post Office, Banks and other sites of exquisite interest. Each of these visits would entail and warrant a blog of their own(which I would refrain from).

During the first week, also had my first touch point with the SP Jain Gang at Ritesh’s aka Professor Economics’s House Warming/ Pooja ceremony. A lunch at Rajdhani(Ghatkopar) entailed which was interspersed with banter and jokes dating back to MBA times – Ritesh and his appetite(which is admirable), Bhakti aka Bee and her driving skills, Koushik aka Cowboy and his flashy smile – and the heady concoction was getting stronger.

More in next.

Mumbai Diaries - The Case of Stolen Shoes

The glorious day had finally dawned. It began with a bleating at 11:59:59 PM on 7th Feb 2009 by Parakeet. She was the first to usher in the congratulatory note concocted with smug remarks on the incremental effects of the Birthdays on the age. Jhansi( a tall cousin of mine) was all too keen as well to get even with what I had dealt to her two months ago.

After greeting the cozy Sunday sun with a beaming smile, the day was all set to be basked in. Post a sumptuous home cooked lunch, was time to head out for a bit of Mumbai pilgrimage, with mom and dad. First stop- Siddhivinayak Temple at Dadar. En route, our taxi driver was crying hoarse with interesting and covertly wicked tales of harassment meted out by the Mumbai Police Hawaldars. All we could afford him was a smile of empathy.

The security had definitely been beefed up from last time. Bunkers,Hawaldars and Higher ranks and road discipline around the temple premises- were promising . My bulging bag with the brandishing tripod jutting from the side, caught the attention of all the guards at once and at the same time( a feat which I am remarkably good at repeating). A few looks and I realized the companion on my back was not a welcome here. An opportunistic flower vendor immediately offered his whole-hearted commitment to protect my companion with all his life and heart. My over-protective heart, however, declined such largesse. The end-result was that I waited outside as my parents ensconced themselves in meditation. Pooh, a consultant by profession, would for the next 35 years of my existence remind me that she would rather have me go to Siddhivinayak in the morning- which would perhaps have enabled me to enter the premises. I shall test this theory next time, if it works I shall claim the theory to be mine else blame Pooh for her miscalculations.

Next stop was Mahalaxmi Temple. One of my earliest memories of Mumbai as extricated from my childhood(Parakeet and Jhansi would smirk on the incremental effects) has been the winding and the narrow lane leading up to this beautiful temple by the sea. Security at Mahalaxmi Temple was a stark disappointment. I wheezed through with some preliminary inspection and a verbal promise of not taking any pictures. After the darshan, it was time for me to click a few snaps of the iconic Haji Ali. As I descended, in deep contemplation at the possible angles, I found something amiss. My shoes were gone. I could see mom’s, I could see dad’s – my white Nike shoes with yellow in-soles were strangely invisible. I blinked and fluttered my eyelids in despair. The despair suddenly turned funny- for I had to contemplate all those angles –barefoot (socks!)?! At this point I would like the readers to observe a 2-minute silence in prayer and good wishes for my Nike Shoes. It had done well and I hope it shall continue to do so.

My initial reaction was to find a shoe store in the area- which bore no results. I then stuck to my task of clicking pictures – yes I was barefoot(save the socks) while doing so and roaming around the Haji Ali area. Mumbai has a unique charm – it enforces pilgrimage even on the non-believers.

Haji Ali is in need of serious repair(I shall upload pictures in my next blog). The stench in the area needs BMC to pull up its socks.

We next headed to King Circle(Matunga), with the primary aim of satiating our bellies and a critical aim for finding solace for my burning feet. Solace found and we hit Ram Asharaya to devour on the piping hot Kela Bhajjis served with the yummiest chutney. Mom’s face was glee personified as she revisited the taste of ginger lemon which Ram Ashraya is famous for.

Dusk dictated that we head back home. After a brief stop-over it was time to head back outside- for dinner. We headed to a neighbouring restaurant –Abhiman – usually known for catering good food. As the waiter segued by our table, we placed our order – beseeching him not to make the dishes spicy. The waiter grinned, an all-knowing smile and promised that the chef would comply. The dishes arrived – looked gastronomically attractive enough. As the first piece of roti(encumbering sabzi inside) entered my mouth, a chain reaction was set to play. A few milliseconds later my face was red, I was seething in agony and sweating beyond all descriptions of profusion. I had lost my appetite. So had mom and dad. After a few more attempts at ingesting the food, we gave up. We decided to head out and end the day with an ice-cream.

That was how my day came to an end. However the mystery remains – my shoes. Do pray and yes thanks for all your wishes.

More in next.

Hundred Reflections...

Shattered glasses all around me, hundred reflections, of blaze, stare,
Senses reverberate, to the deafening roar, in shock, in awe and gasping for air.

I huddle on my torn carpet amongst stares, amongst the shock, incredulous and oblivious,
Eyes, wet in the images of a crushed skull, awake, wide open and yet unconscious.

An unfinished piece of bread, stale perhaps, for the darkness that lies ahead,
Mind starves, and heart feeds, in blood, in fear and in hope for all things sacred.

Eyes bulging out of my skull, hair withered away and mind playing dumb,
In the cold of the night - nails wasted and blue, lips thin, skin clinging to bones and senses numb.

I am destiny’s child; I know not what is mine, what is the future and what is bygone,
I am God’s child, child of the Promised Land, await I do -for a dawn.

A never ending conflict for the Promised Land. May the year 2009 herald peace very soon.