LOVE AND WAR ARE NOT VOICELESS NOW - By Rishika Rathore

 

Are love and war opposites of each other?

-       If so then why warriors are someone’s lovers and lovers are somewhere warriors.

 

Do you know the essence of love?

or

Do you bow to the presence of war?

 

What is better?

What is fruitful?

What is admirable and what is reliable?

What is……..

What if to skip these confusions we give voice to LOVE & WAR themselves and know them?

 

 

 

 

 

 WHEN LOVE AND WAR ARE READY TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH EACH OTHER                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     - Love and war are not voiceless now.

 

THE VOICE OF LOVE

 “I dance in the universe and complete the verses of poets,

  I am the envelope carrying beauty,

 and flows in the moves of dancing duets.”

 I am the essence of this subtle universe and product of every effort. I share a friendly       proportion with success, wisdom, asceticism, happiness and all those elements people do not want to drop in the lap of extermination. People book tickets to my Wonderland to escape the helter-skelter of lifestyle. Even they admire me at each second through carrying bonds and relationships in a centripetal way. I am the blossom which everyone hankers for their life. I am the roof when it's raining and a coat when winter is gaining its existence. I am a bandage  to fiascoes and a stage for the crestfallen. I am not elusive yet tough to secure. I accept fatty, cadaverous, bony, pale and every needy person in my own realm; therefore I carry the glory which no war can ever win. Have you understood it War?

 

 THE  VOICE OF WAR

 “I am the one,

Chess gets inspired from

and the one mess

lends its electrifying wires to.”

I am heap which no broom can clean. Oh! Love do you really think your approach to glory is not at all putrid and bad smelling by admitting all the sick, pale and bony in your apartment? I believe those last lines of yours, gifted Glory with ignominy, he will surely rebuke and jump in the watery well and live in like a frog their, so to escape a kiss from the princess of Love and ultimately avoid ruling over your lovely palace of muck which you call apartment of bony and cadaverous.

Just look at me, I dance through swords in the battlefield. I am the punctuation in the poems and partner of the ardent situations. I own a land of dignity and power, which is the cusp  and the very point of transition where craven becomes eligible to hold a raven leading them to combat and being influential. I can offer and opportune the fruition which can make women to drop their bangles and engage in pivotal routes. I am the ranger who likes to play with danger. I am able enough to accost and motivate the tantalizing beings to admire the clangouring triumphant.

A mother first undergoes a war of giving birth to an infant and my end gives space to you to  sprinkle your elements and make mother shower you – Love over the infant don’t you think you need to swallow this subtle truth? 

 

THE VOICE OF LOVE

It’s not at all inexplicable that the lovely scion and humanely twig is the product of a synergy carrying me in those nine months which gives his mother the unperturbed strength to ensure his birth and joyous worldly welcome at all points of their precise journey.

How could you neglect this fact, War?

Oh, how could I forget?

This fact would be an abrasive to your previous statement, by demolishing your existence with scholarly friction!

Forgive me, my superior. How could someone like me who is happy with a Tiara holding poppies, peonies, roses, hyacinths and camellias could lecture someone as dignified as you. Yes, you ‘who laden's his head with a crown holding beautifying stones, carnelians, crystals and chalcedonies so far.’ I am really sorry War, if the synergy of my fact overlapped the vibes of a well positioned chronology of your suffice words directing your first place and mine the next,                               

 

THE VOICE OF WAR

So, what do you want Love?

Should I get settled in the ranges of Carpathians?

or

Should I dive in the Titicaca like a submarine?

Remember your play of words, cannot deny my existence which can make the tribals of Carpathians rule over the nearby villages or the Titicaca to portray the most stormy and dangerous state of atmosphere so far! So why you just not start pollinating with the bees, and discover ways to make the peonies, poppies, camellias and other leafy elements of your tiara more fragnanceful and pleasant to the senses. I can really imagine it. This suits you.

 

 VOICE OF LOVE

 

 Whatever War!

I am nowise dredged, my mere existence can turn a ‘tumult of mass’ to ‘warbling of birds’. Now, let me acknowledge an incident to neurons which umbrage at few moments.

 

Their lived an old women, sadly bejeweled by the Almighty, with only few things of her own which included a Wigwam and a Field, she belonged to a village named Tsurui in Japan with his husband been dead of respiratory illness and no children of her own, she was alone undergoing through some heart wrenching phantasmagorias and struggling to carry on her life.

The village was known for accompanying themselves with the indigenous red crowned Cranes, which she finds satiating enough to look at. Few festivities were going on too in the village, she never reflected ambivalence in respect to them or tagged it all as hogwash like other old aged people of the village do because of the sound created by them  through tambourines, harps and drums whole night which overlapped the melodies of psalms and hymns. It was a day festival but it was shifted to night due to schools and timings of workaholic groups by the head of the village and was modified in accordance to the privileged group’s entertainment.

Well, good surroundings including festivities and red crowned creatures do not certify her life to be beautiful too. As the very next day a landlord execrated her with words carrying virulence and took her field, by disposing of all of his gravitas he should have held at that very point of time. The old lady was suffering with dolorous pangs of her incapability; the very next day she requested the landlord and stated that you had cut off my pinions and made me immobilize in a way you cannot even think of but I am still here with a tub in my hands to at least take the soil from my land so that I could dive in the little bit of bona fide satiation the soil holds.

 

Landlord granted her permission but still he couldn’t understand her and followed her to the field with brolly to protect himself from the dreadful sun regurgitating flames in the names of rays. Soon she was done with her labor she put in respect to getting the soil and asked the vulpine landlord to put the tub full of soil on her head so that she could move towards her Wigwam.

Landlord said that I would surely help you with that but this tub, full of soil is heavy enough that if your weak and fragile body would carry it from here to your home you could even die by melting in this sun supplemented with the euthanasia which this weight will provide to your lineaments.

The old lady replied ‘if a tub full of soil could turn me into a dead corpse, then how would you be able to live with the burden of my land with your false claims your entire life, you would be dead too?

This statement of old frowsy women made him imagine her, a preacher at a pulpit and himself as the plodding mistakened human. He immediately gave her the land she owned.

 

See War, no feud by old lady in place of a thought process could have get her land back.

Wars and battles are not the best way to deal with everything.

 

 VOICE OF WAR

 Really, a fragile human personality could define my requisite!

‘I would like to tell you Love, I am attractively unusual and quaint.

I draw the personality of Kings and let the swords, battles and blood act as brush and paint,

and this is what is my raiment and scent.’

Don’t you think, the migration of Sandpipers and Godwits between breeding and wintering grounds, is an exemplary attempt to showcase the reach of my scent reflecting  airly battle through their regular seasonal movements, where they need to fly away and again get settled?

Though they are delicate creatures like flower petals but just a species who could be so varied that they could replace a color thesaurus; whereas they continue to migrate, feed and battle till their beak and notes turn them to a sick bugle and a dot in the wide sky.

So adventurous and life changing am I, right?

 

                                       

 THE VOICE OF LOVE

 You cannot hide your irony, by using Godwits and Sandpipers as your metaphor. Just tell me, how you learnt the art of becoming prairies in the secured space or the entropy in the arrangements?

How do you become an invisible chute and channelize the beings to detriment?

How do you carry people at your back and turn to a trundling vehicle when approaching crusades?

How terse cackling of swords modifies to your atypical amusement?

How even the gnawing attributes at times sometimes justify the savoury opeartions?

How do you become a perfect incinerator to turn things to ash, in this case more apt then cinders?

How the metallic thrones you give, characterize themselves as wads when holding the monarch?

How do you sit in every scripture behind the bravery of a swerving ambushed group?

 

VOICE OF WAR

Oh dear, I am just a wild form of sheenful love –‘Love of people towards monarch, justice and rights’. I constitute oligarchy and nurture the brave in a way so they can help the foraging beings. I am not dingy, gloomy and drab but the ulterior egregious volition, sometimes reflects me as a plunge to misery and blood! I act as a chisel when it comes to dealing and digging the humanely weeds in the earthly garden and the inoculation in opposition to unkind cruelty.

Every strike of needle through the cloth during embroidery is me.

Every number which is being turned to a code is me.

Every unscathed existing is the proof of me.

Every tidbit lying in a plate is the result of me.

Every exsanguation to dignified end is me.

Every Clurichaun in Irish folklore is me.

Every fact turned to a secret is protected by me.

Every pinch used to burst the balloon of decadence is me and I suppose every unseen bent which hardens you- ‘Love’, is me.

 

 

VOICE OF LOVE

You need to remind yourselves War, that even the thumbscrews are allowed to swim in my munificient flow but I do not suppose that I myself eviscerate the unseen in them. Their quality of losing you as rust in my flow is their limn to show their loyalty towards other elements like me. I do not cover and hide  but I give transparency to wager, in a way, that oubliette of knaves can be avoided.

VOICE OF WAR

I am really in a need to enlist, what creatures flow in your shimmering munificient flow but  besides all of it, I am the loveliest devil  who is seeing my reflection in your flow and you in turn indirectly fuels me with glitter and glow.

I am the evil veil of you Love, and you are the benevolent armour of me. Nor you and your elements can end me because you are the only reason which is suitable enough to initiate me. I am the constellation and you the stars as such, you give the final shape to me.

The proportion of you can turn an engagement to a nuptail and my motion in between can turn it to a bad ended tale.You see if we both are not mixed well, our proportion is as dangerous as sorcery.

VOICE OF LOVE

I am realizing that I am the lightest form of war.

VOICE OF WAR

And I am the hardest form of love.