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 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 the 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 that 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 that 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 there, 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 on the battlefield. I am the punctuation in the poems and partner of the ardent situations. I own 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 opportune fruition which can make women 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 humane 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 lecture someone as dignified as you? Yes, you ‘who laden 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 do 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 fragrant 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 a ‘warbling of birds. Now, let me acknowledge an incident to your settled neurons.

There lived an old woman, sadly bejeweled by the Almighty, with only a few things of her own which included a wigwam and a field. She belonged to a village named Tsurui in Japan while his husband died of respiratory illness and had no children of her own. She was alone undergoing through some heart-wrenching phantasmagorias and struggling to carry on with her life.

The village premises was known for accompanying it 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. The next day a landlord execrated her with words carrying virulence and took her field, by disposing of all of the gravitas he should have held at that very time. The old lady was suffering with dolorous pangs of her incapability; the very next day she requested the landlord and stated you had cut off my opinions 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.

The landlord granted her permission but still, he couldn’t understand her and followed her to the field with a 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.

The 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, so 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 mistaken human. He immediately gave her the land she owned.

See War, no feud by this old lady in place of a 'thought-provoking' process could have made her get the 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 their breeding and wintering grounds is an exemplary attempt to showcase the reach of my scent? That is, their airly battle in respect to their seasonal movement to fly away and again get settled reflects me.

They continue to migrate, feed and battle till their beak and notes turn them into 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 learned the art of becoming prairies in the secured space or the entropy in the arrangements?

Why do you become an invisible chute and channel the beings to the detriment?

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

Why terse cackling of swords modifies to your atypical amusement?

Why gnawing attributes at times justifies the savory operations?

Why did you became a perfect incinerator to turn things to ash, in this case, more apt than cinders?

Why do the thrones you give to the victorious, characterize themselves as wads when holding the monarch?

Why 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 gloomy but the ulterior egregious volition sometimes reflects me as a plunge to misery and blood! I act as a chisel when it comes to digging the humane weeds in the earthly garden and the inoculation in opposition to unkind cruelty.

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

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

Every unscathed existence is proof of me.

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

Every exsanguination to a dignified end is me.

Every Clurichaun in Irish folklore is me.

Every fact turned into 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 munificent 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, which creatures swim in your shimmering munificent flow. Besides all of it, I am the loveliest devil who is seeing my reflection in your flow and you in turn indirectly fuel me with glitter and glow.

I am the evil veil of you 'love', and you are the benevolent armor 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 nuptial and my motion in between can turn it into a bad-ended tale. You see if we both are not mixed well, our proportion is as dangerous as a 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.

By Rishika Rathore