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Friday, October 12, 2007

A Dozen White Roses

"Someone gets excited in a chapel yard and catches a bouquet,
Nonetheless, there's a dozen white roses on the grave."
Audioslave - Be Yourself.

Tap on the window, Knock on the door,
Try the door now, the lock - it is secure.
The door is forced open, Oh! Her limp figure!
An angelic grace, but the noose does not flatter.
He crept up behind her, a bundle of expectation,
A second's embarrassment, he popped the question,
All the world and his wife be damned!
His beloved had laughed and accepted his hand.
Tears stream down her face, "Oh! He will pay!"
She mops her brow, and frantically scribbles away,
This love, it has spent her, She's weak now,
and He! He does not care for her anyhow.
The father of the bride was seated now
waiting for the ceremony's final bow,
Never in his life had he shed a tear,
But Joy can what Regret can't nor Fear.
"Strange are love's ways", she wonders,
"Must I pay with my life for one blunder?"
"No, the man I love is no barbarian,
I must not mar his heaven."
A dozen white roses are becoming on the bride,
A dozen white roses, great regrets it can hide,
And if in life it be happiness you crave,
A dozen white roses lie beckoning you to your grave.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007



I watch the world around me with a slight unease
The wind blows, but it isn't the good old breeze,
I wonder, as I fall on my knees,
Did the Devil finally this earth seize,
Our worthless minds too easy to please,
My brows, with intense thought, crease,
My lips, with a cold dread, freeze,
My Eye, oh unseeing Eye, no longer sees,
I have no share of my past expertise,
I whisper a dead man's pleas,
Beware of this unholy sleaze.
(Of greater danger to humanity than cheese :P)

I watch the world around me with a slight unease,
I am helpless against the onslaught of this disease,
Yet, I say, I shall not descend to SMSese.

Friday, June 01, 2007



So speaks Balathusrus, of the Elven race.

‘Gather around, friend, for long-forgotten tales
of glory, of valour, splendour and war,
of deeds outrageous, of the might of mages,
of elf, of man and of dwarf,
of peace and strife, order and turmoil,
of cities as great as Hirrengard,
of orcs, of wargs, of trolls,
of dragons and serpents and all.’

Ballad of a Steward

The Last Good Lord

A long time, when the Sun poured fire
And the Moon vent her ire, ago,
The people of N’Ruk believed ‘twas their luck
That they lived so,
For, every dawn heard the battle-cry
Strong awaken the sleeping soldier,
And, he jumped up, his heart leapt up
To join the battle for a treasure.
Women, afraid to roam the streets
Watched the Stronghold besieged.
Thousands and thousands of heads did fall
Unrelenting at the walls till the treasure was siezed.

The steward did stomp, his brow he did mop
As the battle and day wore on.
Then, decided, he went to the yard
To call the Lord’s mighty swan;

/* Excerpts from ‘The Lord’s Swan’ */

Neither Sun’s light nor sword’s fight
Could rival the white Swan’s might.
The beluagured guard, glimpsing the
Light, did with renewed vigour fight. *//

The gloom in the air in the battlefield at first
Did deter the Swan’s passage.
But neither arrow nor spear could slow
The Swan, nor could a mortal’s rage.

Over meadow and battle it did fly,
Over hill, hillock and mound,
Northwards and east, beyond Mirkwood’s
Reach, to where it’s Lord could be found.

Three days it was since the Lord’s steed’s
Leave, and the steward of N’Ruk did worry,
Wonder he did as each defence crumbled,
Whether the treasure deserved the glory.

The ravens of South, retreating North
Shot by Orcs did say
“The Death King approaches,
The Axe of Chaos will slay if you stay.”

The day next, when the merciless sun
Was at it’s peak, all a sudden,
The fire stopped it’s shine, the sky was
Black with a million bats’ burden.
The outpost overlooking R’Len reported
An approaching Company of Wargs,
While a fresh army was on it’s way
From Gundabad – Land of Orcs.
Advisors to N’Ruk counseled in vain
For the steward to surrender,
For, to strike the Orcs and elude
Balkoth, chances were slender.
Towards evening, the North outpost
Reported an army of the Necromancer,
Trolls, goblins and the scum of
Mirkwood had crossed the Red river.
The steward then declared, “I, Balathusrus
Have not protected that which was the Lord’s
With bowed head and shamed heart, I depart
To the wilderness beyond the River Guards.”
Action suited word, the steward’s horse
Bore him to the North and West,
N’Ruk, without a leader, lay bare,
It was Balkoth’s greatest conquest.

Thirty days since the Lord’s steed’s leave,
Balkoth’s rams rammed away.
For a day and half, the door of N’Ruk
Roared and croaked until it gave way.
But even as the sun reluctantly rose
To shed light on a new day,
Darkness reigned and the earth cracked,
The Axe of Chaos had come to slay.
An ugly roar split the air,
And above the roar spoke the voice of Death.

/* Excerpts from ‘Dark Songs and Riddles’ */

“Ah! So you think you can defeat
my strongest Orc’s fastest steed?
You have taken what was mine,
Now I’m the shiver down your spine,
To stalk you, hurt you and strike unexpected
Till you relinquish it, O ill-fated!

In two days, twice shall my war-horn blow
And after, a river of blood shall flow
To quench the thirst of a world that sees
A thousand years of splendour and peace.” *//

In two days, twice did the war-horn blow,
And on the third, the Nazgul reared it’s head,
Balkoth entered the city and the last inhabitant
Of N’Ruk was struck dead.
Orcs and Trolls, Goblins and Wargs looted N’Ruk,
While Balkoth and the Necromancer debated,
The horrors of the day made the cloud dark,
Afraid, the howling of the air abated.
Yet, as the black sun set to give night her way,
A prick of light stood rooted
Against the black and dark sky,
Even as Orcs mirthfull shouted.

/* Excerpts from ‘Dark Songs and Riddles’ */

The orcs mirthfully shouted,
“The greatest city is rot by us,
Might man is slain by us,
Now the knave run and hide,
We are Death’s harbinger.”

Wargs of R’Len joined in chorus,
“A howl in the dark, roar in the light,
Feast on strife and strike with fear.
Take our lives and give us Death,
To our foes, we shall do likewise.”

The goblins of Mirkwood smiled and said,
“Long hours we prowl in the shade
of Mirkwood, gloomy, obscured, bedimmed,
clutching a streak, nay a beam of ‘Dark’
to kill our foe before he dies.”

They all then sang together,
“Yet, there is one who rots cities,
slays everyone and brings Death.
Howls in the night, roars in the light,
Feasts on a fight and takes our lives.
He is strongest in gloom, holding
A spell that kills us before we die.
We shiver and chatter when he draws near,
For, he is the omnipresent Fear.
Yet, there is one whom Fear fears,
Despises beyond hate and wrath,
And that is our Lord, the son of Death,
The great Dark Elf, Balkoth.” *//

Amidst the song and merriment, the sun
Unnoticed, rose to full light.
Some, who saw it, were perplexed,
For the sun had risen in the mid of night.
Glee and wonder gave way to fear
As the Lord on the Swan came near,
The Lord of N’Ruk the Lord of Life,
The Lord of the one true treasure.
In a frenzy of light and sound,
The Lord said unto Balkoth,
“You want the elfstone, forget it,
You follow the Death God, forget the path,
You believe the Necromancer, forget him,
And I will treat you my own.

But, if you stay firm and believe
That dog, prepare to reap the wrath you’ve sown.

‘Orcs and Trolls, Goblins and Wargs,
relish my spell of Immolation.’
Said the Lord, invoking the Life mage
Illanwyll to cast the incantation.

Multitudes of the dark forces fell
To the ground, while some brave fellows
Stood and saw their blood ooze
And produce the Red Summer’s Fallows.

The Clouds Burst


The Nazgul reared it’s head, the black
Fire in it’s belly raging,
Wings it spread to darken the sky
Mouth open and roaring.

A flap, and the gale lifted
The body high,
The air was thick with the scent
Of death and the death cry.

“Virtue is dead, Death is alive,
Death or destruction, give us either.
We pray, we swear fealty to
The one great Golgoth of the nether.”

But, a light of life cleaved the
Mists that held the earth darkened,
The Lord of the Orcrist, on the
Pegasus had spokened.

‘Orcs and Trolls, Goblins and Wargs,
relish the spell of Immolation’
Ilanwyll was invoked and she waken’d
To cast the incantation.

Thousands and thousands of heads
Did fall while the Nazgul and Pegasus duelled,
The Nazgul flew high, the Pegasus higher,
The Nazgul dove deep, but the Pegasus undercut deeper.

But, ah! What a deception!
The swan that slew a million
Bats could hardly hold sway
Against the dark treacherous fangs
Which blocked it’s way.
It’s life-force was soon swept away.

The Lord of the Orcrist, enraged, lifted
The eight-foot blade and darken’d
Its lustre with the blood of a Nazgul,
Even as Balkoth sat aloft, hearken’d.
Then the Dark Elf smiled and spoken’d.

“Vain are the fools who cross my path,
and you, life-lord, are no better.
Pledged your life to defend a rock,
Now your spirit is but a glimmer!
Such is the fate of ill-gotten splendour!”

And so started the Great Battle
Of spells, curses and anti-curses,
Blessings of destruction, gifts of Death,
Invoking the powers of Nature and her forces
And at times, the aid of the Necromancer!

But, when the night reached her darkest,
The Dark Elf lifted the Axe of Chaos,
And shred the elven mail that held the Lord,
‘Twas a truly great loss.
Then spoke the Lord’s voice.

“The elf-stone is not for you, Balkoth,
nor is it for any infidel.
Remember, the god you serve is treacherous,
And remember, too, your deeds well,
For I shall await you in hell.

The embrace of death is not great
Nor are the feats of mortal rage,
Realise, Balkoth, that belief in Life is true,
Not in the death mage, for,
He speaks lies unbefitting his age.”

‘Balkoth of the Elven race,
Be gone in this Fire-Spire.’
The fire mage, Skald, invoked,
Consumed Balkoth in a pillar of fire.

So it was, that years of mustering armies
Were finished in an instant,
The hope of freeingthe land from Golgoth
Was still too distant.
The Necromancer (one would have
Expected him to vanish from Urak),
Just smiled wearily and lifted
The death staff in the city of N’Ruk.

“Golgoth of the nether, rise m’lord
and let me struggle anew.
Preserve the spirit of Balkoth in shade
For he has yet to fight for you.
Virtue is dead, Death is live
And those who oppose it are very few.
The life-lord is just one more,
His death was long overdue,
Relish his blood and of the swan
That the great Nazgul slew
And give us once more it’s wings
That, in shade, will rule.
Give us, Lord, the spirit of Balkoth
For his belief in death is true.
So I beseech you.

Balkoth of the Dead, arise and fight
As Denethor, Lord of Death.”

The clouds burst, as Golgoth, invoked,
Infused Balkoth’s spirit into the lifeless Elven-Lord.
And so, rose the first bad lord.



So speaks Balathusrus, of the Elven race.

‘Gather around, friend, on this new year’s day,
Peace has come and is here to stay.
The Dark Lord is slain, life is pure,
Woundls will heal, time will cure.
Let the rivers of splendour flow
And cities of Elf and Man grow.
Mayhaps, one day, the Gods will dance
Once more on the plains of Beleriand.

The Denethor of Death is dead and gone,
The Necromancer is spent and worn,
Trolls of lore are holed in keeps,
Yet, Man in his misery weeps.
Gather around friend, for one last charge,
The Might of Man is not all lost,
Urak will one day be free
From the foul winds that ravage land and sea.

Till then, steel your heart and flesh
To last the night and start afresh.
Unite, men and elves, show your worth,
Let us bask in glory henceforth.
Gundabad shall fall, Orcs shall flee,
The shackles of Death will soon not be.
‘Tis not a dream, friend, we seek the stone,
lesser men have done much more.
After all, it’s not capturing a dragon is it?
Alright then.
Soldiers, attention.
Sound the siren.
Onward to Gundabad.’

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Belfast's War : Part 1


The air was charged with news of war,
The skies were lit by a lonely star,
Waters rippled at the news of doom,
Soldiers of Wallaha were sunk in gloom,
The warriors of Morcha, intent to show
Their crippling power, their devastating blow,
The civilians of Sheer ran hither-thither,
The birds,in their fright, shed their feathers,
The walls of Sheer crumbled in shame,
the trees bent down, bearing the blame,
The king of Sheer, with an anxious frown
awaited messages from the king of Sioune.

"Sioune, the capital of Morcha the cunning,
Morcha at war, there is no turning
back ; Mind you, our armies aren't
slack ; The king of Sheer just daren't
attack ; Why, he hasn't even set up armored
flak ; Support we have garnered
back from the people, from the various forces,
We shall, in this war be victors."

"Beleagured soldiers of Wallaha, look up,
Frightened citizens of Sheer, hear up,
Terrified Nature, Oh Please! perk up,
Defeat is in thy face, own up,
Yet, you have to deny it, I say, listen up,
If we can resist them now, stand up,
We can live forever, swords up,
And fight like never before, fight up,
So I speak, the king of Sheer."

And so, the kings of the two empires spoke,
Yet, one's heart in his bosom was broke,
"What are a few untrained militia
against the might of Morcha",
thought the king of Sheer with a shiver,
the matter was out of his hands forever.
With tears in his eyes, he looked up at the calendar,
the pages said it was the fifth of September.

Belfast's War : Part 2


The air was heavy with the doings of the past,
The sky was down since December last,
The turbulent waters more turbid grew,
The soldiers of Wallaha were but a few,
The capital of Wallaha was besieged,
Not food enough for all to feed,
The king of Sheer in a humble surrender,
For, chances of victory were very slender,
The river of Sheer ne'er redder grew,
The Prince of Sheer on a steed flew
Towards the village on the banks of the river
With a new-forged sword and bow and quiver,
Sped away on the horse the prince Belfast
And reached the village on December last.

News came swift, sped by the air,
"The Walls of Sheer are no more there"
With a last cough, a last croak,
The walls of Sheer had crumbled and broke.
Warriors of Morcha flooded the streets,
Terrified women cowered in the sheets,
Knowing not when the door would open
And a warrior would cut their throats open.
Men had gone to help if they could
Knowing not if it did any good.
The soldiers of Wallaha in the Sheer battalion
Went out to face warriors a million,
While messengers went from there northward,
Their horses faster than the fastest bird.
A day's journey, an hour's rest,
Reaching the river, they turned west,
And rode on through the moonless night
Until the village of Pang was in sight.
They were in a dreadful hurry
And not for a moment did they tarry,
They shouted - "Very few of our militia
Remain to fight the warriors of Morcha,
And we need food and flour
To feed us in this dire hour.
Run, run fast to save your soul,
Or, stay and fight this war foul."
And, riding through the crooked lane,
They went just as they came.

Their words were heard by the young Belfast,
He saw the heavy skies overcast,
He knew that the end was near,
His face paled white with a dreary fear,
Ne'er once in his life had he seen blood,
The very thought of it filled him with dread.
And yet, for all he could, he could not run,
No farther was the horse ready to run,
He had to stay, he had to fight,
He had to fight till he'd lost the fight.
Yet, it wasn't compulsion that stopped him,
It was his heart that made a man of him.

He strolled out on the fields white,
Every second, his will bade him fight,
With anger his body began to shiver,
He raised his voice without a tremor.
"This is my land, I shall have it,
I shall rule it as I see fit.
Wallaha shall forever be our land,
No foe can ever weigh down his hand,
This is my land, This is our land,
Those who feel so, please make a stand,
The Prince of Sheer orders you so,
Send some food to the soldiers, Go,
I shall fight when they will feed,
And I shall make Morcha bleed,
Ne'er redder shall my sword glow,
Redder still than river Sheer's glow,
I admit, it will not be a task easy,
But since I say so, SO IT SHALL BE."

The villagers of Pang, motivated by his vision,
Raised their hands and voices in unison,
"Hail, Prince of Sheer, live long,
You have emboldened us, made us strong,
Not for a moment shall we question thee
We shall obey till the sun we can see.
We are at your service, we are at thy feet,
We shall be with you till body and soul can meet
We shall arm you, we shall feed you,
We shall fight back, and protect you,
We shan't be barred by snow, hail or sleet,
We shall fight to the last, till death greets."

Tears welled in the young man’s eyes
And his sword rested on his well-built thighs,
The birds had heard his solemn promise.
“I will now tell you what your job is…”

Hissing and blowing, he went to sleep,
To refresh for the coming day’s weep,
The Dark of the moonless night showed wherever he turned,
Yet, the fire in him brightly burned.
Sleep eluded him like gold the seeker,
He crept out of the hut like a creeper
And stared at a distant bright star
Until he was ready for the war.

A prayer for his family, a prayer for victory,
A prayer for the village and for all the country,
With a prayer on his lips, he strode out,
Harking for news of Sheer about.
And then he heard a deadly sound,
Of disturbed jungles around,
The clash of Armor, the trod of Iron,
The clang of shields made newly of iron.

“The Warriors are near, the Warriors are near,
The warriors are near, so be with fear.
Think not that you can stop our orgy,
Fight not for we don’t want our boots blood-soggy.
The day after, we shall cross the river
And lay dead more bodies to flow with the river.
We shall set a time most feasible,
Our lust for blood is insatiable.”

The prince of Sheer stopped fast
And sped back to the village fast,
To warn the people of the danger,
To hoist a bloody welcome for the strangers.
He stood near the storehouse of silage,
His voice was heard through the village,

“Men, it’s time we showed our mettle,
For one day, leave the tending of cattle
Death harks at our door, O brother,
The forces of Morcha have laid waste my father,
Now they camp on the jungle yonder.
I have given a moment’s ponder,
Now I reveal my humble plan,
Implement it if you can.

As the merry warriors move ‘morrow,
Perched on trees, villagers shall rain arrows,
And a few soldiers shall await the rest
And in the fight, strike them dead-rest.
The bridge of Pang shall be our guarded treasure
It shall not see a single seizure.
And if the merry fools dare come
I shall, mark my words, lessen the number some.
On the bridge, I shall fight,
I shall fight with all my might,
And then the bridge shall fall,
Killing those Sioune’s all.
But look carefully and then decide
Whether I’ve lost, besides,
These fools are but a part, a part of an army’s last.”

The villagers waited with bated breath
Listening to all the prince said,
They silently armed themselves
Removing weapons from the shelves
And when the owl went about crying the hour
And the villagers were in a mood sour,
The prince of sheer crossed the river
With a blood-red sword and bow and quiver,
Bracing the cold, bracing his fear,
Unsheathing his sword for the War for Sheer.

The dark of the sky was disturbed
And an orange glow sprang up unperturbed,
The redder the sky grew, the redder the fire,
The prince was now controlled by his ire,
Stealthily though the forest he went
And when he reached the clearing, night was spent,
He rested the reins, gave a knowing pat,
He jumped to the ground and lay flat.
He got up, his hand on his sword,
Not a single soul stirred.
He espied a few tents put up
And the remnants of a fire burnt up,
The warriors were sleeping,
Knowing not the intruder creeping,
The prince struck one, he struck another,
His sharp sword went through the leather,
And when he had slain the ninth head,
The eighth gave a gasp, struggling in bed.
In an instant, the camp was astir,
The faces of the warriors betrayed their fear,
The prince lost no time, he went to the horse
And galloped away through the undergrowth sparse,
A few warriors gave hot chase
But in a minute, they were wide off their base,
Drowsy and weary they never looked up,
The villagers ‘pon the trees picked them up.
The prince turned around and made for the clearing,
The warriors for the war were preparing,
The ground was wet, the wait weary,
The prince stood still awaiting his quarry,
The warriors prepared then set forth,
All this happened on December fourth.

Belfast's War : Part 3


The air was frosty with signs of fight,
The sky was a ghastly blue tinged with white,
The waters of Sheer were crimson-red still,
The Soldiers of Wallaha were all killed.
The warriors of Morcha were ready to burn down
All of the empire for the king of Sioune,
They, however, faced stiff resistance
From the forces of Wallaha’s persistence.
And now, their armies numbered five hundred
And they seemed to be the Devil’s kindred.

A hundred were posted in the city of Sheer,
To boast their victory, to instill fear,
Another had gone to the far north,
Feeding on a lavish meal of broth,
A third had gone to the extensive foothills
Hoping for many more kills.
The fourth hundred had gone to Sioune
To crow their victory to the Crown,
The last of the army stood on guard,
They were the ones that had fought hard.

But now, the hundred that had gone northward
Felt the prick of Belfast’s sword,
And when they set forth, full of gaeity,
They numbered hardly eighty,
The prince’s sword had struck down nine,
Ne’er in his life had he felt so fine,
But he knew, now was the hard part,
This was where the War of Pang would start.

“The warriors are near, the warriors are near,
The warriors are near so be with fear.”
They cut a crooked path through the forest,
Their moods were worse than the worst tempest,
They walked till the bridge of Pang was in sight,
Looking at it’s guards, they knew there was a fight.

“We shan’t be barred by snow, hail or sleet,
We shall fight to the last till Death greets.”
The sentries of Pang had prepared for the fight
And now they stood, under the sun’s light,
They numbered hardly five and forty,
They were, all of them, praying for victory.

On seeing the warriors, they gave a signal,
The archers on the trees caught the signal
And let down a shower of arrows on the fools,
Blood began to collect in small pools.
The warriors looked up, returning the fire,
The archers on the trees began to tire,
One by one, the archers fell,
Who was winning? No one could tell.
The sentries of the bridge charged the strangers
Unmindful of their own present danger,
The fight lasted for a good many seconds,
For many a man, Death beckoned.
Slowly, the warriors progressed to the bridge,
But the prince was nowhere ‘pon the bridge,
The scales fell down from the villagers’ eyes,
And a lone villager was about to cry,
“The Prince of Sheer has not kept his word,
I see not the glint of his sword,
While we face this situation dour,
The prince has left us in this darkest hour.”
He was wrong, he knew it,
His eyes, on seeing a horse, lit,
But it was just too late,
The villagers could not change their fate,
The warriors made it to the bridge,
The villagers lost their coveted bridge,
The few remaining fought the fools,
The warriors were like stiff mules,
Twenty of them sprang across,
Suddenly, the bridge gave a mighty toss,
It swayed and slashed and then fell down,
Killing the last of those forces of Sioune.

But one man made it to the other side,
The women-folk did not have a place to hide,
The warrior raised his sword, a vision of fear,
Little did he know, the Prince was here.
From the other bank, the prince shot an arrow,
The warrior fell with a sickening sorrow,
He fell down with a ghastly thud,
The last of the warriors was dead.
The prince turned around, his heart was lead,
He knew that this was his tenth head.
He observed the bulwark broke
And the ground with blood soaked,
Trhe villagers had done all they could
And they were victorious in this feud.
A great weight was off their hearts,
Relief was creeping in, part by part.

But the prince’s brow was troubled still,
His heart cried out in a voice shrill,
“Go to Sheer, O Master,
Find out what happened to your father,
Wait not for water or food,
Swiftly and smartly, go through the woods.”

The prince made his way through the woods
Waiting not for water or food
And went on the road to Sheer,
Throughout the journey he heard Morcha’s jeer,
And thoughout the journey, he cursed Morcha
Whose forces were defeated by the merest militia.
His heart thrilled with a joy primeval,
Belfast, the young leader of the upheaval.

He rode on though the bloody night
Until the ruins of Sheer were in sight,
His heart stopped dead at the sight he saw,
Atop the palace was the flag of Morcha.
Just then and there his hope was killed,
He knew his father was captured or killed,
The latter, he hoped, with a gloomy frown,
For, even Hell was better than the prisons of Sioune.
All the signs said his father had surrendered,
His hope was wrong, he wasn’t murdered,
Into the gaping jaws of Death he had to go,
To Sioune he had to go.

His plans were, however, grounded,
For, warriors of Morcha had him surrounded.
The Sword was raised for the last time ever,
Arrows vanished from the quiver
And nine bodies fell, a few more as well,
And those that remained were in living hell,
Finally, a warrior struck at Belfast’s head,
The Prince of Sheer, clutching his sword, panted
And drove the blade through the warriors heart.

“You are the twentieth man I’ve killed”, Belfast said,
then he twitched and lay dead.