Rahila Jeddy Blogs

Oval and square,Some rectangular too,lustrous and shiny,The mirrors have so much to offer,Some see their beauty in them,Bright and gleaming!For others they are like scale,Weighing their grace and grit!Yet these shiny reflective frames,Destined to reveal the truth,The blind eyes may ignore but reality prevails.Illusively fake! Do we have mirrors within us?To grope in depth or

A shooting star in the darkest hour,Had it not fallen on my roof,I wondered though!The gloomiest night filled with brightness,Glazed in the wraps of destiny. The silver trays laden with flavourful food,Just I held my hand to grab a bit,Not even a tiniest morsel is written for me,Must not have been destined! A womb seeded

I saw some human parcels,Named and attributed for some,But landed in strange land,Lying ordinary in people’s life,A package useful but useless,A box containing goodness for a waste,They just dwell from one place to another,Roaming mercilessly!With thoughts yet speechless,Vain but insufficient! Do you wonder how they would feel?They can see, hear and sense,But being an object!

Have not the world become a better place?If you and I would stop counting strange sins,Calculating each demeaning acts,As a rhapsody of bleeding colours,Loathing the fact,If we look into our own mirrors,Others may not appear this shady. Only if, we would magnify the glasses to our own souls!

A month of lost and found,Lost the shade in age!Punished the soul for the generational baggage,Added barrenness in soul,A shade of grey and sorrow,A face of mystery,Destiny powered,The disposition of decisions and actions,Altered the fate,How I wish this month no longer exists,The eleven months and not twelfth within,The year gone,Yet more to go!

Some of the crimes are nothing but plasters,Covered layered by layered,Blocked as plaque,Loathed and hated,Bandaged each time to heal,Sometimes to conceal,But they are not our wounds,Generational trauma,Or Some borrowed agonies,Itchy and bloody,Pricking deep,Turned blue yet veiled,Each one of us have some,Whether priest or sinner,These plastered crimes!

I remember I gathered some pieces of the broken glasses,Half filled and half empty,Crystal pieces all scattered around,Slipped off the hands while making the lemonade,Never it was meant to be broken,Just it slipped,And spread all over like mercury,Difficult to be groped,The fear of touching it,As it might become blood through thin skin,Poisoned inside,Slow but lethal

You call it resilience?It is a mountain laid on my back,Too heavy to carry,Weakening all my limbs,Bending my shoulders,With aching bones,Yet I wear it as a shield! You call it peace?The muffled voices of abuse,The venom your words poured into my soul,I can’t spit it,Believing it as a potion of love,I mixed it within my

Had you asked me for a moon or a star?I must have picked a tiny delicate star,Silver and lustrous,Ordinary but a North StarShowing sign and hopeFor the days to comeUnlike moon, who slows down or pace up,But never remains constant,Only had he asked me?The choice would be simpleReliable and staunchBut not a treacherous moon with

I had a glass of belief, half filledDiluted with faithSomeone added crushed ice of accuseIt changed its colorThe crystal of the ice swell it with agonyA tablespoon of added loathe turned it purpleLike a newly bleeding woundShrieking in my soulPiercing it hard with sharp toolThe froth of murkiness appeared, as some churned it with prejudiceSome