He came from a small town. And he was born to live a simple life. Cycling with the wind, playing with his sister, listening to the stories of his old grandmother, growing up to take care of his family. A smile on a shy face, a skip in every eager step and joy unbounded in his heart, he was the love and pride of his parents.
He dreamed of being a writer. Days he would spend in his room, reading, learning, never tiring but always craving for more. His mind seemed one with the author and in that magic, he reveled. Time flew by and hours felt like moments. Enthralled he would be when he thought to inspire such enchantment in the hearts of young readers with his words.
But Fate thought to intervene and he was led astray. He was a bright student at school, and his parents decided to send him to the finest college. There he got a degree, one that would help him to get a steady, well-paying job. He would earn enough money, live in a big city and support his family.
Arrive he did in that city of wonders, the city that housed the wealthy in its skyscrapers and the destitute in its slums, the city where dreams were rumored to come true. He was fascinated, by all that was and could be. The people drew him to them the most, and he thought of reaching out to them through his words. He dreamed of weaving fantasies and stories and of telling to the world truths and untruths galore.
He was an underdog, and he worked all day at his stuffy office desk. At night, he hid away from Fate and wrote his stories. During the hours of daylight, he slaved away at myriad unworthy tasks, yet his enthusiasm and sincerity never wavered. Later he would take respite in himself, in his mind and his books, writing for himself. The sweet, shy and scared boy had lived on in this man. He wrote about what he saw and felt, and what he imagined, yet feared to bring it out to the monstrous world.
He lived on, writing, hiding and working, always working. He was promoted and given more work to do. And he persevered. Never could he face the world with his dream alone. Life began to change for him. No longer did he have time to write his books. His smile vanished, his dream disintegrated. He was not an underdog anymore, but now dealing with younger underdogs and dreamers. He grew old, to all the world a successful person.
He tried to break away from the monotony and stillness, but his responsibilities tied him ever tighter. Those magical scraps of paper, with the ink long dried on the captivating and bewitching words, lay to waste in the darkest corners of his house. His mind had gaps in it, like a pleasant dream long forgotten, that gaps of many days spent without ever thinking of that dream. And the days turned into years. The light in his eyes had gone out, his face was marred by the sorrow of a crumbling life. The writer and the dream were no more, a shadow of the boy lived on.
Fate, it seemed, had taken its due. The power of the beguiling words was thought to be forever lost. And one day, he chanced upon an old story he had long forgotten he had written. Memories and smiles it brought back. He hesitated, then stepped forward and gave it to his son. An eagerness awoke in his heart, with hope.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Friday, November 5, 2010
Bucket List
The Bucket List is a wish list of things to do before one dies. It is inspired by a movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman who are both terminally ill when they hit the road to live their last days in fun and fulfillment rather than in a dull ward. Here is my list-
1. Attend a live concert of Trans Siberian Orchestra. Complete with the pyrotechnic displays and the whole instrumental range
2. Live in Ladakh, in a place like Shey Valley. With nothing but the snow capped mountains, wind blown pines, translucent blue streams and the peaceful stupas around you.
3. Learn to converse in Spanish, Italian, French and Urdu.
4. Learn the Viennese waltz. In all its tragic beauty and flawless grace.
5. Create, design. Something, that will blow my mind off
6. Read the Quran. Entirely, honestly
7. Have my own chestnut brown horse. Name it Firenze. Ride it over open fields. Run with the wind
8. Visit Kashmir. Take in the beauty of its gardens, lakes, mountains, streams, rocks, people. Beauty long gone they say. Perhaps, and perhaps not.
9. Watch a tiger in the open forest; as it lives its life, hunts, kills, drinks, lazes around.
10. Read the entire collection of Frederick Forsyth. Live the exciting and aspirational life of a virtual spy.
11. Play all of Beethoven on the piano. Love and sweetness to me.
1. Attend a live concert of Trans Siberian Orchestra. Complete with the pyrotechnic displays and the whole instrumental range
2. Live in Ladakh, in a place like Shey Valley. With nothing but the snow capped mountains, wind blown pines, translucent blue streams and the peaceful stupas around you.
3. Learn to converse in Spanish, Italian, French and Urdu.
4. Learn the Viennese waltz. In all its tragic beauty and flawless grace.
5. Create, design. Something, that will blow my mind off
6. Read the Quran. Entirely, honestly
7. Have my own chestnut brown horse. Name it Firenze. Ride it over open fields. Run with the wind
8. Visit Kashmir. Take in the beauty of its gardens, lakes, mountains, streams, rocks, people. Beauty long gone they say. Perhaps, and perhaps not.
9. Watch a tiger in the open forest; as it lives its life, hunts, kills, drinks, lazes around.
10. Read the entire collection of Frederick Forsyth. Live the exciting and aspirational life of a virtual spy.
11. Play all of Beethoven on the piano. Love and sweetness to me.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Gems
Coming home after that rough everyday struggle for your livelihood, literally. Looking forward to good food and a warm bed. Trying to drain the poison off my mind, recollect all the things I enjoyed doing. Trying to remember if there was ever a thing that could consume my mind, my passion, me. That I believed in, wanted to live for.
It was the evening before the Ayodhya verdict was to come out. And my rickshaw driver, decked in the traditional taqiyah, asked me not to step out of my house the next day without reading the newspaper. It was not very safe for me, though Mumbai has offered him lots of freedom, enough to visit his beloved mosque in the middle of the night and unload his mind in prayer. Why fight over such an old issue, he claimed. Why not build a hospital. After all, what could be a higher act of benevolence?
There are men of wonder who spend their lives in mosques, in prayer and healing, he said. Those maulanas, both revered and feared by different kinds of people, they can perform magic. Tantras they know, of great power and use, and these they bestow on the sick and poor. No money or food they take in return, but a blessing and a hope that man would not harm, kill or sin. Hundreds of superstitions they know of and preach. He followed many, several were given to me in advice.
Simplicity, yet comprehension led his life. Ignorance of several scientific marvels, perhaps. Yet, how much did it really matter what he believed, as long as he was happy and did not hurt a single soul in the world. And I remembered and felt what it had been like to have such conversations, such times of knowing, of trying to understand, of sharing thoughts and love. Like a passion waiting to fill itself in something.
Life may be full of crap, but it is a few moments of pure happiness as these which make it worth living. It made me smile, more than once.
It was the evening before the Ayodhya verdict was to come out. And my rickshaw driver, decked in the traditional taqiyah, asked me not to step out of my house the next day without reading the newspaper. It was not very safe for me, though Mumbai has offered him lots of freedom, enough to visit his beloved mosque in the middle of the night and unload his mind in prayer. Why fight over such an old issue, he claimed. Why not build a hospital. After all, what could be a higher act of benevolence?
There are men of wonder who spend their lives in mosques, in prayer and healing, he said. Those maulanas, both revered and feared by different kinds of people, they can perform magic. Tantras they know, of great power and use, and these they bestow on the sick and poor. No money or food they take in return, but a blessing and a hope that man would not harm, kill or sin. Hundreds of superstitions they know of and preach. He followed many, several were given to me in advice.
Simplicity, yet comprehension led his life. Ignorance of several scientific marvels, perhaps. Yet, how much did it really matter what he believed, as long as he was happy and did not hurt a single soul in the world. And I remembered and felt what it had been like to have such conversations, such times of knowing, of trying to understand, of sharing thoughts and love. Like a passion waiting to fill itself in something.
Life may be full of crap, but it is a few moments of pure happiness as these which make it worth living. It made me smile, more than once.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Prayer
People fight. Everywhere and all the time. For money, land, work, possessions, but most of all, to feed their egos. They are not bad people. No one would make with his own hands a world of bad people. Only they do not know what they are doing. And when they realize, it could be too late. Too late to repent, too late to gather their courage and correct their wrongs.
Man is just not meant to live with others. He just cannot share his life, his actions, his mind with anyone else. For any two people are so very different from each other. And so they clash and they fight, to convince the other of their fault. Man is not witless. Yet his ego overshadows everything, until he has no energy left to fight or to pick up the reins. And at the end of it all, he still craves for the comfort of another hand to hold his.
He desires peace. And still his stubbornness leaves him no space to see the way to it. Through understanding; through acceptance of imperfections, their own and those of others. A way to have a perfect kind of happiness, where he may not have the ideal and yet can wish for no better. For if he can ever reach God, how can it be except through this state of having the most perfect happiness or knowing the most beautiful peace? Won't he listen and bend his knees; in prayer, in conciliation, in glory?
Man is just not meant to live with others. He just cannot share his life, his actions, his mind with anyone else. For any two people are so very different from each other. And so they clash and they fight, to convince the other of their fault. Man is not witless. Yet his ego overshadows everything, until he has no energy left to fight or to pick up the reins. And at the end of it all, he still craves for the comfort of another hand to hold his.
He desires peace. And still his stubbornness leaves him no space to see the way to it. Through understanding; through acceptance of imperfections, their own and those of others. A way to have a perfect kind of happiness, where he may not have the ideal and yet can wish for no better. For if he can ever reach God, how can it be except through this state of having the most perfect happiness or knowing the most beautiful peace? Won't he listen and bend his knees; in prayer, in conciliation, in glory?
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Mumbai!
The impossibility of a city's existence strikes you. You step off a train onto a railway platform overflowing with people. They are men and women in formal wear, college students, casual laborers, newspaper vendors and beggars. Rushing through life. A city skyline beckons in the distance. You sit on the rocks, to take in the night sky, the jewels. You give your heart away to the place.
The world wakes up to a new dawn. Not Mumbai, the city never sleeps. There are always buses and trains to catch, offices and schools to run to, work to be done in shops and homes. Life does not stand still, never, not for anything.
Old tin roofs, large white clocks, tobacco stained walls, millions of lives breathe past you. You stand in relativity, in hushed surprise. The young ones cross the railway tracks to feel the adrenaline rush. Trains know better than to run late. Every 2 minutes, they arrive to whisk you off to wherever you have to spend the rest of your day.
Colors are everywhere. In streetlights, neon shop lights, sparkling glass buildings. The night smells of lashing waves, freshly caught fish, vada pav and kesar kulfi. Crabs bask in the evening light, cars flash by signals, the sun sets behind mountains or horizons. The millions of people suddenly materialize from nowhere, with no respect for those poor drivers the roads should belong to. And yet, they would willingly stop anytime to help give directions or watch roadside fights.
God casts his shadows over tall buildings, dark narrow roads, and the jewels come to life. The necklace of a Queen it is rumored to be. Nostalgia catches up as we remember the countless evenings spent strolling along Marine Drive. Sitting on the rocks and talking about life. Later we slept under the stars, ruffled by a gentle breeze. For all its noisy crowds, nothing could disturb the tranquility of the place.
There is a little place in our hearts for everyone coming here. We wait, we help, we touch, and we make a little space for you too. We do not need broad tree lined streets to make it a place worthy of being lived in. It is, and will be great for everything it is made of. Beauty lives in every wall and stone. Museums, churches and history amaze all. Mumbai has lived past that. The station is old, Victoria Terminus is astounding in its loveliness.
Terrorists those are, that walk in and try to burn holes in the city. Fear haunts us for a while, but we get back to our usual lives. A day or two, and it moves on. Life is full of hope and positive things. The city grows, against fear, against everything trying to drag it down. It was never crowned as the king. It grew into the financial capital of India.
For all of us who love Chinese dosas and every other experimental thing to eat, Dalal Street holds special meaning. Walk by and you see stargazers beguiled by the sight of the flashing screen. It would be sacrilege not to mention the kababs that can make a connoisseur faint from pleasure. No fancy Urdu names about generous leaders, the place is called Bade Miyan.
Child of the rain gods, Mumbai's people revel in its insanity. Stand near Worli Seaface and you can taste the salty drops as sheets of water spray you all over. A walk on a causeway over the sea brings you to the beautiful Haji Ali Dargah. Exquisitely constructed in the style of Indian Islamic architecture, the shrine is replete with legends about doomed lovers.
Bandra at the heart of Mumbai is enticing in its beauty. Old world bungalows on sloping roads, trees bending down to curtained windows, fishermen, rocks and sea. There is plenty for food lovers and no dearth of places to hang out - Biona, Lucky, China Gate, Pot Pourri, Hawaiian Shack, CCD, Bagel Place, Toto's, Poison.
MunnaBhai breaking bones, chasing girls and getting drunk. That is Dhobi Ghat.
The beach is just a few minutes away. If ever you feel like taking a walk, being by yourself, sitting down with the warmth of the sand grains beneath your feet. Sinking in the sand watching the sun go down. A sliver of red, a seductive glow bathing the sea in a silver sheen. Reflections..
Aksa, Madh and Marwe beaches are the perfect holiday spots with their many resorts, peaceful spots in a mad world. Juhu beach was the place we went to on Sunday evenings with our parents. Splashing about in the water, building sand castles and digging tunnels was followed by rides on the giant wheel and visits to the food stalls! The sev puri, pani puri and pav bhaji are beyond delicious, they are among the best you can find anywhere. And these Northerners think they know how to make chaat. The sight of colored Gola bottles always makes me long for my favorite - orange, kalakhatta and lemon.
You could be an auto driver or cruising in a fancy car, and yet you could not resist taking your eyes off the road to stare in wonder at the dark mysterious expanses of sea, the towers of diamonds built over you. They fly over the water, on the Bandra Worli Sea Link.
Earrings, sandals, hand bags, food stalls and coffee shops outside National's; you are lost in a maze of colors and girls bargaining with shopkeepers to bring down prices from 350 to 100. Linking Road in Bandra.
An old world mystique stuns you. World of sepia, of quaint little bungalows that have lived past the years. Quiet family homes framed in wooden arches, black iron gates creak open. From the sights and sounds of rushing madness to the smell of steaming chai and pakodas.
The mountains, lakes, the sea and mangroves have laid claim to these lands. Just as rich as the physical diversity is that of the communities, cultures and regions its people belong to. The imam calls for prayer while the young men dance to loud drums. Carols are sung while they hold burning candles. They cover their heads and are merciful in prayer. Life, in more than one way, is a celebration. A Jewish Synagogue stands tall in its uniqueness and beauty.
The slumdogs of Mumbai, chasing real planes. Listening to the rush of planes taking off and betting on which airline it would be. Running to the balcony with my brother, to check, to watch the dazzling firecrackers in the distance, spraying the skies with their glittering colors.
The green of the forests is a trick by magic. Silver waterfalls twinkle in your ears wherever you go. The roads to Kanheri and Lonavla charm you with their raw, wild beauty.
The summers are not really hot, the winters are not really cold, and often you cannot tell the difference between the two. At least you do not need a winter mist to hide those unlikable faces. Meeting the same people everyday; the same time, in the same compartments; making a journey together in local trains, the lifeline of Mumbai. Nothing beats the feeling of standing near the door of a fast train compartment and hanging out of it to feel the wind rush up to you. Escaping from the TC.
But it rains all right! That is an understatement. The downpours are crazy, wrath like; flooding streets, stranding people outside their homes, bringing life in a normally unstoppable city to an almost complete halt. And in this madness, you would find a couple of naughty urchins dancing in the rain and splashing in the puddles like they have never enjoyed life more! Makes you think about those little things that suddenly make you feel beautiful.
Spending a day at The Gateway and taking a launch ride to Elephanta Caves. Walking in the by lanes behind the Taj, all the way to the Prince of Wales Museum. Lying down in the grass at Azad Maidan. Heavens above you, counting diamonds.
The best part about the city is its people. They may be busy, but they would genuinely help you. No 'Sorry', 'Please', 'Thank You' needed. No worrying about courteousness and manners, no having to think twice before you speak. Everyone bothers only with their own work, not that of neighbors and acquaintances.
You can do anything you like here, Mumbai provides you with it all. They are equals, be they beggars or the rich, they live, eat and travel together. They are comfortable with themselves and happy with their lives. You have your own space, no one and nothing can threaten you anywhere, any time. There is a warm feeling, a feeling of returning home. No matter where you come from, you grow to love the place and its people.
The world wakes up to a new dawn. Not Mumbai, the city never sleeps. There are always buses and trains to catch, offices and schools to run to, work to be done in shops and homes. Life does not stand still, never, not for anything.
Old tin roofs, large white clocks, tobacco stained walls, millions of lives breathe past you. You stand in relativity, in hushed surprise. The young ones cross the railway tracks to feel the adrenaline rush. Trains know better than to run late. Every 2 minutes, they arrive to whisk you off to wherever you have to spend the rest of your day.
Colors are everywhere. In streetlights, neon shop lights, sparkling glass buildings. The night smells of lashing waves, freshly caught fish, vada pav and kesar kulfi. Crabs bask in the evening light, cars flash by signals, the sun sets behind mountains or horizons. The millions of people suddenly materialize from nowhere, with no respect for those poor drivers the roads should belong to. And yet, they would willingly stop anytime to help give directions or watch roadside fights.
God casts his shadows over tall buildings, dark narrow roads, and the jewels come to life. The necklace of a Queen it is rumored to be. Nostalgia catches up as we remember the countless evenings spent strolling along Marine Drive. Sitting on the rocks and talking about life. Later we slept under the stars, ruffled by a gentle breeze. For all its noisy crowds, nothing could disturb the tranquility of the place.
There is a little place in our hearts for everyone coming here. We wait, we help, we touch, and we make a little space for you too. We do not need broad tree lined streets to make it a place worthy of being lived in. It is, and will be great for everything it is made of. Beauty lives in every wall and stone. Museums, churches and history amaze all. Mumbai has lived past that. The station is old, Victoria Terminus is astounding in its loveliness.
Terrorists those are, that walk in and try to burn holes in the city. Fear haunts us for a while, but we get back to our usual lives. A day or two, and it moves on. Life is full of hope and positive things. The city grows, against fear, against everything trying to drag it down. It was never crowned as the king. It grew into the financial capital of India.
For all of us who love Chinese dosas and every other experimental thing to eat, Dalal Street holds special meaning. Walk by and you see stargazers beguiled by the sight of the flashing screen. It would be sacrilege not to mention the kababs that can make a connoisseur faint from pleasure. No fancy Urdu names about generous leaders, the place is called Bade Miyan.
Child of the rain gods, Mumbai's people revel in its insanity. Stand near Worli Seaface and you can taste the salty drops as sheets of water spray you all over. A walk on a causeway over the sea brings you to the beautiful Haji Ali Dargah. Exquisitely constructed in the style of Indian Islamic architecture, the shrine is replete with legends about doomed lovers.
Bandra at the heart of Mumbai is enticing in its beauty. Old world bungalows on sloping roads, trees bending down to curtained windows, fishermen, rocks and sea. There is plenty for food lovers and no dearth of places to hang out - Biona, Lucky, China Gate, Pot Pourri, Hawaiian Shack, CCD, Bagel Place, Toto's, Poison.
MunnaBhai breaking bones, chasing girls and getting drunk. That is Dhobi Ghat.
The beach is just a few minutes away. If ever you feel like taking a walk, being by yourself, sitting down with the warmth of the sand grains beneath your feet. Sinking in the sand watching the sun go down. A sliver of red, a seductive glow bathing the sea in a silver sheen. Reflections..
Aksa, Madh and Marwe beaches are the perfect holiday spots with their many resorts, peaceful spots in a mad world. Juhu beach was the place we went to on Sunday evenings with our parents. Splashing about in the water, building sand castles and digging tunnels was followed by rides on the giant wheel and visits to the food stalls! The sev puri, pani puri and pav bhaji are beyond delicious, they are among the best you can find anywhere. And these Northerners think they know how to make chaat. The sight of colored Gola bottles always makes me long for my favorite - orange, kalakhatta and lemon.
You could be an auto driver or cruising in a fancy car, and yet you could not resist taking your eyes off the road to stare in wonder at the dark mysterious expanses of sea, the towers of diamonds built over you. They fly over the water, on the Bandra Worli Sea Link.
Earrings, sandals, hand bags, food stalls and coffee shops outside National's; you are lost in a maze of colors and girls bargaining with shopkeepers to bring down prices from 350 to 100. Linking Road in Bandra.
An old world mystique stuns you. World of sepia, of quaint little bungalows that have lived past the years. Quiet family homes framed in wooden arches, black iron gates creak open. From the sights and sounds of rushing madness to the smell of steaming chai and pakodas.
The mountains, lakes, the sea and mangroves have laid claim to these lands. Just as rich as the physical diversity is that of the communities, cultures and regions its people belong to. The imam calls for prayer while the young men dance to loud drums. Carols are sung while they hold burning candles. They cover their heads and are merciful in prayer. Life, in more than one way, is a celebration. A Jewish Synagogue stands tall in its uniqueness and beauty.
The slumdogs of Mumbai, chasing real planes. Listening to the rush of planes taking off and betting on which airline it would be. Running to the balcony with my brother, to check, to watch the dazzling firecrackers in the distance, spraying the skies with their glittering colors.
The green of the forests is a trick by magic. Silver waterfalls twinkle in your ears wherever you go. The roads to Kanheri and Lonavla charm you with their raw, wild beauty.
The summers are not really hot, the winters are not really cold, and often you cannot tell the difference between the two. At least you do not need a winter mist to hide those unlikable faces. Meeting the same people everyday; the same time, in the same compartments; making a journey together in local trains, the lifeline of Mumbai. Nothing beats the feeling of standing near the door of a fast train compartment and hanging out of it to feel the wind rush up to you. Escaping from the TC.
But it rains all right! That is an understatement. The downpours are crazy, wrath like; flooding streets, stranding people outside their homes, bringing life in a normally unstoppable city to an almost complete halt. And in this madness, you would find a couple of naughty urchins dancing in the rain and splashing in the puddles like they have never enjoyed life more! Makes you think about those little things that suddenly make you feel beautiful.
Spending a day at The Gateway and taking a launch ride to Elephanta Caves. Walking in the by lanes behind the Taj, all the way to the Prince of Wales Museum. Lying down in the grass at Azad Maidan. Heavens above you, counting diamonds.
The best part about the city is its people. They may be busy, but they would genuinely help you. No 'Sorry', 'Please', 'Thank You' needed. No worrying about courteousness and manners, no having to think twice before you speak. Everyone bothers only with their own work, not that of neighbors and acquaintances.
You can do anything you like here, Mumbai provides you with it all. They are equals, be they beggars or the rich, they live, eat and travel together. They are comfortable with themselves and happy with their lives. You have your own space, no one and nothing can threaten you anywhere, any time. There is a warm feeling, a feeling of returning home. No matter where you come from, you grow to love the place and its people.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Your catharsis
Wish I could make beautiful music. Beautiful, touching, painful. Music that would slice through you, rip you apart, stab every particle of being, every moment of pain.
Toss me a line, throw me a hand. Watch pain spread like blood. Warm me in its flow.
Letting go is more memorable than holding on, chasing who knows what. Expectation is the root cause of all sorrow. Illusions mirage the only reality, pain.
Nature is not you. Camouflage yourself. Do not believe in god.
It is not a comfortable world out there. There are knives and they lie, cheat, deceive. They are out to get you. I revel in your betrayal. I fall prey to the world's madness. Who has ever been your friend? Death of a soldier is a number.
As it rains, I dance. Life runs in circles, thought of a good life acts trigger.
No! Time to let it out. Time to wake up to nothingness, to blindness. Do not give me a sign! Do not give me a fantasy, a hope! Lose myself in that quicksand. Phase the darkness. Merge with my world in insignificance. Your true creation. I see it. Wish I did not know hope! The wrong side. Helplessness grips.
Fall slave to music in my moment of weakness.
Toss me a line, throw me a hand. Watch pain spread like blood. Warm me in its flow.
Letting go is more memorable than holding on, chasing who knows what. Expectation is the root cause of all sorrow. Illusions mirage the only reality, pain.
Nature is not you. Camouflage yourself. Do not believe in god.
It is not a comfortable world out there. There are knives and they lie, cheat, deceive. They are out to get you. I revel in your betrayal. I fall prey to the world's madness. Who has ever been your friend? Death of a soldier is a number.
As it rains, I dance. Life runs in circles, thought of a good life acts trigger.
No! Time to let it out. Time to wake up to nothingness, to blindness. Do not give me a sign! Do not give me a fantasy, a hope! Lose myself in that quicksand. Phase the darkness. Merge with my world in insignificance. Your true creation. I see it. Wish I did not know hope! The wrong side. Helplessness grips.
Fall slave to music in my moment of weakness.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Angel
Have you ever felt yourself reflected in another person? Have you been tremendously comforted by someone's presence because it felt like being with a part of your soul? Have you been unafraid to confess everything you hold close to your mind because you knew that they would understand? Have you ever wished for an angel?
"Angel,
Put sad wings around me now
Protect me from this world of sin
We can find our way somehow
Escaping from the world we're in
To a place where we begin
When I close my eyes
I hear your velvet wings and cry
I'm waiting here with open arms
Oh can't you see
Angel shine your light on me
We'll meet once more I'll pray
When all my sins are washed away
Hold me inside your wings and stay
Oh take me far away"
- Judas Priest
Angel,
You flew down from the heavens one night
Into the world, to the waiting child
To always be with me
When you smiled into my eyes
Thoughts turned into dreams
Treading through desert lands
I wish you were here with me
Holding my hand
A thousand things you told me
In words unspoken etched in stone
Secrets I had dared not reveal
Fears and dying hopes
Oh how I waited for you to heal
Angel you comfort me
In a way I have never known
Your memory is a beautiful rose
Angel of love, fly away with me
"Angel,
Put sad wings around me now
Protect me from this world of sin
We can find our way somehow
Escaping from the world we're in
To a place where we begin
When I close my eyes
I hear your velvet wings and cry
I'm waiting here with open arms
Oh can't you see
Angel shine your light on me
We'll meet once more I'll pray
When all my sins are washed away
Hold me inside your wings and stay
Oh take me far away"
- Judas Priest
Angel,
You flew down from the heavens one night
Into the world, to the waiting child
To always be with me
When you smiled into my eyes
Thoughts turned into dreams
Treading through desert lands
I wish you were here with me
Holding my hand
A thousand things you told me
In words unspoken etched in stone
Secrets I had dared not reveal
Fears and dying hopes
Oh how I waited for you to heal
Angel you comfort me
In a way I have never known
Your memory is a beautiful rose
Angel of love, fly away with me
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