Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

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spīrəl

21may_mi

 Back, back, back, back. It isn’t a whisper, but the voice is low. Soothing, feminine. Coming from within a continuing, chaotic spiral. Back, back, back; it cajoles me. Where are you? What are you? Don’t you wanna remember? I see no one.

Where am I? Who am I? No, No. I resurface; I am no more sleeping. Lines form themselves on my forehead, the spiral widens and loses its end.

I get up and join it.

I·dyl·lic

img_4786_randomlyabstract

Amidst sky hues,
Setting suns, misty blues,
Silences lapsing into eternities, infinities;
Our poetry calls us to listen.


Took this on my return route from Nathiagali, Pakistan. Got inspired by the daily post’s challenge to share it because this trip meant all sorts of magic to me.

tsk

they are all growing old
old and apart.
none of them truly excited
about anything at all
and as they stand close,
shoulders touching,
you hear them whisper,
dewy-eyed:
happiness is not a goal.
you nod
and stifle a giggle.
they’re all the same!
all, winners in this game

My dark man. (3)

We sat there at a distance, both missing each other. We could’ve just turned to face one another and talk. We could’ve just talked.

It’s that same place again, and that same part of nighttime where everything feels stitched to something deeper and more calm. We are sitting together: he on the log, and I on a rock. Spread wide above us are the skies, innumerable stars glistening on their soft sheets. The air is cool. I can’t describe how it smells or feels, but I know. It’s the kind of moment one wants to seize, literally freeze. It’s not when you want to think about how time is passing. Because time is not passing. It shouldn’t, now, should it?

I tell myself that you won’t leave. But I know it means nothing. And it is with this thought that the weight of our silence starts becoming torturous. It feels as though someone placed a spiky wire on my bare skin, trailing it down. As it touches my chest, I draw in a quick breath: it has a connection with the void within me. I look at you and you are staring ahead somewhere, aloof, in a world that your eyes see and I cannot reach. And then I realize how you have no idea about my world either. We are equally separated.

We: You and I, the stories yet to complete. I think we are ever-living because of what we have in us. Even though we each carry Words from contrasting entities, we are still what we are for us.

“Tell me one last time, will the sun come?”

“It will,” you say. I think I will then stay for a moment. Until the sun arrives, at least. The log is empty at your side now. I will walk to it and sit there. To feel that warmth again and not shiver. I have wrapped my shoulders around myself. Perhaps the wire will forget to hurt, too. Maybe it will turn into a spring of soothing water if it hits my heart enough times.
Voids are colorless but they are vulnerable to scars that birthed them. I can still hear your footsteps from ten minutes ago. Was it ten minutes ago that you left, or has a century passed already? Oh but the sun, yes, it will come.

Our goodbye was wordless. I think we will meet again.


2014

“I did not want to be what I have become. But I like it now… It suits me. I feel I am where I belong. It is Real. It is Me.”I was sitting before him on the road and there was no one else around. When he said these words, I looked at him. I wanted more answers, and I was searching for them in his eyes. They are windows to your soul, after all, but somehow his soul was a locked corridor now– the key to which was unknown to even himself, I suppose.  Read more

2015

“You don’t know how it’s like to be what you are not.”

“I sure do. I have known you for so long and never uttered a word about you. That is the same thing in a way, if you see.”

He turned his head. I stood at a distance from his seat: a log placed in the middle of the road. An empty road– our secret place.

“No,” he whispered. “You cannot see the sea in me. You can only see the waves.”

“I can see the sea,” said I. Then taking his name, I continued: “And I can also sense a storm. Please confide in me now, let it crash me down if it so must. Break me because I need you.”  Read more


 

(Like the previous two times, this had to be the way it is, too. The first time I wrote it, I was having a problem putting words properly but hoped it would make sense.  It’s of course the same now.)

 

Sauces. #3

It’s so much more but it’s also nothing.

×

You weren’t the skin you were wearing. You were me, myself.

 

We sat there at a distance, both missing each other. We could’ve just turned to face one another and talk. We could’ve just talked.

 

Would we still put people on ventilators if we weren’t emotional?

×

If you notice, you will see what the universe does. For example, it can bring to the outer world what you have inside. It’s so much more but it’s also nothing. Sometimes it’s nothing. Maybe, eventually, it won’t even be that.

Sauces. #1

Sauces. #2

Pillow houses

When we were younger, we made these play-houses out of blankets and pillows. There is this small area under a fixed computer table in one of our bedrooms where we would sit, and because it would be so hot we’d also put a portable fan to the side. Then we would close the frontal opening with stuff and take different roles.

A few days ago when my nephew was here, I fixed a pillow house for him. He was sitting by the wall where a rolled carpet stood leaning, and he was sad and angry because his uncle had refused to share the computer with him. I saw that his eyes were brimming with tears—I mean, can you visualize that? A three year old gorgeous guy who is just about to cry? So I came into action and pulled pillows from my bed. Then, with the rolled-carpet as our main pillar, we put a pillow-gate and a pillow-wall, and went inside. Excited as we now were, we played pretend, took pictures, laughed together, and once again a different world was created in our lives: awesome and away.


Just felt like writing it down here. On a side note, Eid Mubarak, you!!🙂 Also, as 6th September marked my blog’s 6th anniversary, here’s a yayay. *passes balloons*

To be honest, I used to be very passionate about blogging before but now I’m not. I still do love this space like home but things have since then changed. My stats tell me this is only my 10th post for the present year, which, if compared to a yearly average of 80+, is of course amazingly low. HOWEVER, I do believe I will reclaim it soon enough like I want to. Not too soon but still soon inshaAllah. I hope to do that.

soft fumes/peace

A lot of peace. So much of peace.

When nothingness spreads. Takes over and fills in the empty corners inside
Cleanses nooks and corners of your body so your soul can feel holy there. Like it’s in a temple.

A sleep that isn’t your casual escape route. Where dreams don’t push each other like cars chasing in a traffic jam or kid’s throwing blocks in a basket. There’s no hurry and there is no chaos. No tiredness, just serenity. A relaxed mind. A relaxed reality.

No sharp red. No bright sun. Not the scary kind of dark. Not the scary kind of silent. The fear-free, worry-free zone. Nothing artificial nor too temporary. Nothing else. Just peace. The real, real kind of peace. (The one you write about when you want to feel a bit. Not the one we read to read.)

22-Aug-2016

22-Aug-2016

 

the monsters in my cupboard

we had monsters in our house.
they had come uninvited, of course, and they wouldn’t go away.
hush

we had monsters in our house. they had come uninvited, of course, and they wouldn’t go away so we stuffed them in my cupboard
we thought we had hid them well.
only they didn’t like it – at all.

we had monsters in our house and we stuffed them in my cupboard where they took all the space but didn’t like it there at all
we thought they wouldn’t – but we didn’t care
they cared, of course, because they didn’t like it at all

the monsters from my cupboard would beat gongs to protest – I don’t know how they got them there –
the monsters in my cupboard would never rest.
the monsters in my cupboard would not give up.
we would tell we couldn’t hear them but our eyes betrayed us every time.
one would point at the other when they saw several small circles of red veins on their irises
and black clouds underneath
but the fingers would also point back at ourselves so we never had to say
shush

Our Lips Were Sealed.

our lips were sealed except on days we screamed, altogether
we would scream and scream while the monsters from my cupboard would play a thunderous clap
they would shout in alien languages and beat gongs, and roll drums – I don’t know how they got them there but they would. none would tire.

our lips were sealed until the monsters from my cupboard Won and found a way Out
the monsters in my cupboard were no longer monsters inside my cupboard for they found a way out
when they found a way out they hid under my bed. they had better plans to take revenge.

every time the screaming happened, a similar series ensued:
we always got tired and slept cuddling each other, demanding warmth, pleading for safety in The Most Silent Language Ever
we never wanted the monsters to hear. you see, we were trying to manage everything despite suffering
every time the screaming happened and we went to sleep afterwards, craving warmth and safety, rubbing scars revealing fresh blood, one of us wouldn’t sleep.
one of us couldn’t sleep.
one of us couldn’t sleep because the monsters that were stuffed in my cupboard and were now hiding under my bed would find them.
they would face them boldly, ruthlessly, and make a living mess out of them.
they would threaten to shred their skin and scar their lips. pull their bulging eyes out.
(our eyes would be bulging because of our fear.)

every time the screaming happened, a similar series ensued:
we always got tired and went to sleep with one another, but the monsters wouldn’t sleep
they preyed on one of us.
they would eat some of their flesh, and gargle with their blood
and finally, they would pull them under their bed and put a hand over their mouths
As If They Could Scream

one by one, we fell prey to the monsters – at night
during our days we would live like each other.
and did we see our wounds and half fleshes? of course we did.
but we didn’t say for we couldn’t help it. none of us could
and we were losers who had lost while pretending all the way that we knew better
we became them.
and started biting ourselves.

شورش

مجھ سے اس کا شور برداشت نہیں ہوتا۔  چھن، چھن، چھن، ڈھب ڈھب۔  زنجیروں میں جکڑا یہ پاگل آدمی نکلنے کو بےقرار رہتا ہے۔  جانتا بھی ہے باہراس کا کوئی غمخوار نیہں۔  یہاں قید ہے تو باہر کونسی آزادی ہے؟  میں اسے عموماً نیند کی گولی دے کر سُلا دیتی ہوں۔  مگر پھر بہت دفعہ یہ ضد پر اڑ جاتا ہے اور مجھ سے اس کا سنبھالنا مشکل — بلکہ بہت مشکل ہو جاتا ہے۔  دھاڑتا ہے:  شکست قبول نہ کرنے سے حقیقت ٹل نہیں جاتی!  چھپانے سے کب عذاب گھٹتا ہے، وہ تو اور بڑھ جاتا ہے!  میں آنکھیں موند کر ایسی بن جاتی ہوں جیسے سنا ہی نہ ہو۔  اور کبھی کبھار اسے چڑانے کو کانوں میں انگلیاں  بھی ٹھونس لیتی ہوں۔  مگر وہ کہاں چپ ہوتا ہے!  ہنسنے لگتا ہے۔  مجھے محسوس ہوتا ہے جیسے وہ میرا مذاق اڑا رہا ہو۔  بالآخر میں ہی ہار مانتی ہوں، پیروں میں پایل باندھ کر دوڑنے لگ جاتی ہوں۔  جلد ہی اسکی آواز میرے قہقہوں میں ملتی ہےاور ہم دونوں ایک ہی رنگ میں گُھل جاتے ہیں۔  ہم بالکل ایک سے ہو جاتے ہیں۔

(10 April 16)

Of kairis, family and mixed-up memories.

We were sitting on the terrace; it was a cool, sweet night. Now when I say terrace, picture a large one. But it’s only on the right side that the takhat is placed, and several white chairs are set surrounding it, and there are a whole lot of plants lined at the other side by the wall. So we are all sitting together, talking, enjoying, and it’s ultimate family time.
There’s dadi. There’s taye abba. There’s tayi ammi, my mom, my dad, my siblings and I (we’ve come to visit). And I’m probably just, I don’t know how old, but a school-kid. Then they’re talking about aams (mangoes) and we’re probably eating them as well, when I remember this joke about kairis (unripe mangoes, them green ones) being hara-aams. And I tell them that. Dadi doesn’t quite hear it, she was very old. Taye abba asks me to relate it to her, he’s so adamant that I do. And so I go to her and tell. What do I get? A HEAVY (as heavy as it could be from her, the darling old one) SCOLDING!
Psst. How’s kairi haraam? What Allah has made halal, how can that be haram? We eat mangoes, don’t we? Are we eating haraam?
No, daadi, I don’t mean kairis are “haraam”. I just meant they’re “hara” “aams”! Dadi mock-slaps me. Taye abba is laughing. I am bewildered. And I look at them confused, pleading for help. They’re all enjoying it. Probably for a while they got scared too, because dadi had actually minded that. And ammi goes like, why did you have to start on this one? And taye abba encourages me again to explain it “better.”
Anyway, dadi didn’t quite get the joke. So it was on me. And taye abba, very mischievously, had done it. And right now I love him at this thought. I miss him.

Taya abba, baba, baray abbu and chacha. These brothers would all joke and tease around, and still they were those dignified sorts, utterly respectable and similarly lovable men MashaAllah. Taye abba passed away last month after staying for eight months in coma. He had had a brain hemorrhage and then he had disappeared like that for all this time. Like he was and he wasn’t. That’s another story though… For another time. Maybe. Or maybe not. I am not sure how much I am willing to say but you see, today I am going to write a bit. Until I am stopped.

Basically, it was around this time some seven years ago, that dadi died. It was Ramadan [Fifteenth]. And my parents weren’t here – they had gone for Umrah. (Like when taye abba got his attack, his son and son’s wife weren’t here – they had gone for Hajj.) So nana (my grandfather) and aani (my aunt) were staying here at our place. This was so long ago, man. And then I was sleeping and just the day before we had opened our fast at Taya’s where Dadi had been staying. Because like, when your parents aren’t there and it’s Ramadan, then your relatives kind of call you for Iftar parties and set your pick-and-drop and try to lift you up, etc. It’s a good practice, btw. And we (kids) had already been to Chacha’s and Phuppo’s and Baray Abbu’s, etc. Then we had gone to Taya’s. and that day, we had actually kind of freaked out because Dadi looked too unwell. Now, dadi was already half-paralyzed. It had been months since her stroke attack (it had first happened at ours, months-months ago), and she had those pipes attached and her hands and feet had swelled so much. When we saw her that evening, the weird sounds coming out of her throat had terrified us. They did. And my sister had asked Taye abba that maybe it was too serious and dadi should be taken to a hospital again. And Sara Appi (another cousin who had also been invited, because, well, her parents had gone abroad too) went towards her bed and sat there and held her blue, swollen hand and caressed her. and I stood there and called her again and again, coaxing her to see and respond somehow. And we were almost crying. And we stood near but I didn’t kiss her like Sara Appi was doing. And then we had come out of that room (and maybe Sara appi came out last, maybe) then we had Iftar. Then that night I was sleeping at my own home and my sister woke me up and she was crying loudly and I had just woken up, I couldn’t understand anything. Then I was like, tell me what happened. And she called my name then stopped and I pleaded her to go on and she only said “daadi” and I screamed “what happened to dadi?” but she won’t say anything because she couldn’t and then I ran out of my room and there Samar was crying too. I probably ran to Nana or maybe Aani and I know that I had never cried that much before.

The next morning the entire family, etc. had gathered at Taye abba’s and everyone was in the same state. I remember the day like nothing else. and baba had called and he was so impatient to return and he was told to offer an Umrah for her there instead… etc. and then in that room where dadi was laid and many women of our family had gathered to recite the Quran, samar had came with her phone turned on speaker and announced that baba would like to talk to dadi and then baba had talked. And I remember how almost everyone in the room had uncontrollably sobbed and I had heard baba break.

The next time I saw baba break was on taya abba’s situation. When he got severely ill. It was September 17th last year and the first nine days were so damn tough. We knew nothing because it was this moment or that. And the doctors had given up and we were hoping, praying and we wished for Faizan bhai to just make it here. He was his only son. And taye abba had even planned a grand party for their after-return as to celebrate… And it was so unexpected. So hard. So bad. So something, anything that you can put in words because I can’t?

Anyway. If you’re reading this right now it means I pulled the courage to post it which should be a great thing because I am not sure I will, as I write. So you know, excuse the mess.

there’s so much more about taye abba that I can say. About dadi, somewhat. I remember her love. I remember her talks. I remember scenes with khala begum, her younger sister who had died before her. I remember how dadi looked like on her funeral. I remember when she was here, when we heard this naat together… When I recited too. I remember combing her hair. I remember her Ensure milk supplements, and her packet of medicines from before her big sickness. And I also remember the flowers printed on her shirt, basically not their color but a glimpse, like how a memory is and isn’t? Her photo from after she got wheelchair-bound, and when Anna Phuppo was here and she had insisted on taking a family photo. that’s our only major family photo. There’s dadi in the center and her sons and daughters and their spouses and all of us so-many-cousins and even some cousins’ kids which is to say another generation MashaAllah and everyone’s happy and everyone’s smiling.

I think my dadyaal (dad’s side of the family) broke when Dadi died. Because before that we were connected like something else. And wherever dadi would stay (she would take turns, and I remember requesting that it’s our “baari” now and that she should come – we would all do that) the other family members would unite. It was gatherings after gatherings and always were really nice.

Taye abba was the next key-person, the ‘eldest’ they all relied on. Someone who had a reputation for being loved by all of us because he chose to be with a person according to their age and caliber. I remember him planning a family picnic some four years ago (when my sister was getting married) and it was on our request that he had called and made the preps then and there (from our place – he and tayi ammi had come to visit. He was sitting in the lounge on a cushion by the wall). We had (run to mama’s room and) jumped in glee.
Also the other time when he brought gajar ka halwa because I had topped in my exams. Then his favorite thing of all time: he used to be like, ye tou pharray rakhti hai. Maria, tum cheating karti ho na? And he used to do this every time. I used to say, of course taye abba, I hide my notes here and there and there. This was our thing. But one day I was like, no taye abba, I don’t cheat, and he had called me the other day and apologized because had I taken it to heart? But he was that one and only person in my extended family who most valued my academic accomplishments. I used to call dad at his office to tell my results since school and later taya would call me specially, and congratulate me, and make it beautiful, always. From there to university. Last Eid he gave me extra Eidi because I had done something and he was proud of me. Right now I am thinking of how proud I am to have had that kind of person in my life. He made it obvious every time that it mattered to him, what I did, what any other cousin did.

I have other things in mind too. The opposite-word-games that made our childhood, the conversations in the car, the times when we were kids and went to their office and ordered chicken tikkas for lunch.
When he renovated his house, there was this huge abstract art painting in his lounge. And he knew I was fond of abstract and he would say, this is your favorite, isn’t it? You get it?

We had a nice time.

I am not sure what to say now. I gotta stop.

How did we reach here?

Hey, here. I know it’s eating you. Come to me. Talk about it. Tell me how it happened.
I am not judging you, no. Not today, not ever. Just sit here, please, now you do. And say. That’s all I ask from you.
Tell me how you see yourself. Tell me how you see the world. Tell me, how has it changed since last time?
What was the last time? What happened between that point and this, tell me that. Please speak to me. You know you should. Now you should.
So, that time and this is different? It is. What’s different?
Please look at me.
Yes, say. What’s different? How do you think it has changed you?
Do you remember how you were before?
How this world felt under your feet?
Where is that energy? Is it still your strength? Or has it taken another form? Something else that only you know of? How do you like it? You do like it, don’t you?
You won’t tell?
What makes you feel weak, pray say!
What makes you feel good? Share with me.
Does anything surprise you anymore? Does it stop hurting? Does it even hurt at all? Can you feel? Do you wish you could stop feeling? Do you ever want to turn off the faucet from which life flows?
What do you want?
What are you giving?
What have you lost?
What do you miss?
What makes your day?
What keeps you going?
What would you say without me asking these questions? What would finally set you free?

How did we reach here? Tell me, please.

An Apology

Here is an apology
For each tear, every cut on your heart
And everything you feel you deserve one for
But never got.

Here is that apology which couldn’t reach you before
For your lost years, or lost months, or lost weeks
Or just lost days-in-between.
For the sound your bones make when you pull up from a non-sleep
To join another meaningless chase.
For the voice that no more chokes
On hearing, or saying, the word sorry
For your uncontrollable sobs of yesteryear
The memories of which you’ve swept under your chest
To be crushed by the burden of this same meaningless chase we know nothing about.

I cannot mend what is lost
I cannot even change what got wasted but I can hope
And I do. I hope for peace to find you and provide you with just as more strength as you need
Just more strength, as always,
Until you become your hero.
Again. Only this time more truly.

With love.

the bud and body, etc.

See, it’s okay. It’s like cancer. Or tumor. And I don’t know enough of either but I think you’ll get the point:

small like a cell; it spreads;
there’s no denying its power.

So when the tiny little bud is born, you have to wait. The part of introspections and realizations comes later and between this and that, that is, its making and its becoming into something you can actually study or review, there are Happenings.

Happenings I cannot really define. They are about your own actions or decisions, mistakes, coincidences, surprises or shocks resulting in sadness or happiness, honor or humiliation, anything. Investments. The Power decides whether it–the bud– is to grow or not and in which direction. That, however, doesn’t mean you have no say. Because you do. It’s very different but it’s true. You show what you want. Later you get to see the fruit. It could be bad or good but it’s written. Sometimes it rots, wrapping and ruining your heart and skin and brain and almost all of your body.

Vines and vines and fungi.
Grey green with a smell so pungent it makes you sick.
Sick like a man on a boat to nowhere who has no fuel and no help.
No map. Trapped. Alone.

But with a power to bear! And one day, suddenly, you cut off the poisonous vine. The effect isn’t immediate but it’s there: Pain. Hurt. Peace. The understanding comes–not then but then–that all of them (and more) are gifts! It’s really not about anything else.

There is Power that is Present. There are dreams that you can really live. There are fruits that are lovely and fragrant and are there for everyone.

You don’t have to be sure about it.

00:58

black clouds, white sky. burnt roses. stale air. no memories, nope, none. not even thinking of – you were trying to reach point a but life’s pushing you towards b and you’re pretending you still have control, as if

the steering wheel hasn’t come off right in your hands leaving you fully helpless

well look at your eyes. seems to me they’ll pop out of their sockets from the shock. why are your hands trembling, you brave one?

tell me, tell me it’s going to be okay and i’ll believe you once again. for honestly i haven’t got much option (but that’s our lil secret, okay?)

To move on

How easy
It was
For you
To move on
And fall in love
With this guy
And in his arms,
Say:
You’re home.

How easy
You say
It was for me
To move on
And fall in love
With this other guy
And call him home.

How easy
I ask
Do you think
Can it be
To fall out
Of a home
You’ve always called home
When the landlord
Of His Heart
Decides
To throw you out
And say:
It is done.

How easy
I ask
Do you think
Could it possibly be
To find
The curtains, red, of your passion
Lit by fire
That extinguishes never
Even after
You’ve sprayed
Countless bottles
Of healing water.

How far
Had we come
And how far
Are we now.
But do you see
The scars
I still have
Just about everywhere?

And right now
You stand
And ask
How easy
It was
For me to move on
It was not
Easy at all.

We the offspring of fate.

We the people of the sad race.

We the people with regrets.

We the class-divided, caste-divided.

We the religion-divided.

We the people with no dreams.

We the people with hopelessness injected to us as drugs.

We the sick ones. We the mads.

We the people with apologies dribbling from our mouths.

We the people pushing our fingers to our ears to block all sounds.

We the people with more ideas and less strategies.

We the restless souls on the Sahara.

We the men, the women, the not-men, the not-women.

We the unhuman.

We the secret carriers of compassion, the believers of pain.

We the chained, the roped, the bound.

We the restless.

We the givers of nonsubstance.

We the celebrants and the celebrities.

We the ill-passioned.

We the fantasizers. We the confused.

We the two-way travelers. We the mourners.

We the idle. We the tired.

We the escapists, the all-time distractionalists.

We the plastered-smile-patients-of-tears.

We the plastered-smile-patients-of-fears.

We the followers of fiction, unreality, artificiality.

We the people running in circles.

We the not-us.

To THE cousin

To THE cousin, comfort pill, shanasai in diyars of ghair, one who just gets it, understands me like nobody else. Thank you for being the light, for everything and this. I treasure it all just the same. Day made, k, hearts.

We believe in the process. =]

Ordinary girl's peculiar blog

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You know who you are,

You know how much  I value you. You know how much your support means to me. You know. And guess what? We’re the same age again, for the next eight days. Hugs?

Remember the childhood years? That game of touch-me-not at Barray abbu’s old house, the kidnapping plays at Taya’s house, the monkey bar on his terrace and our antics of climbing it, the cousins who pretended to throw us off the railings there? Do you remember playing hide and seek with the elder cousins? Do you remember all the nicknames I gave you? I’m really sorry for the offensive one, although you did get me scolded for it :p Oh, and do you remember the mummy in my room’s store?😀 It’s still there. Come visit someday, it has missed you. All those night stays, the pleadings for night stays, the ijtemaai duaaen for my…

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Saint.

What is it like to be alone?
I think, it’s this moment.

I sit by you on the muddy ground while you sit on the bench by the tree
and this park is quiet.

I ask you nothing. Though in my heart I beg you to speak.
And in my heart of hearts I hope it is about me.

I offer you a globe of blues and greens that’s sitting on my palm
Waiting for you to spin it – within those creases lives everything I have.

You do not pay attention at all. I do not complain.
My lips are sealed.

But I need to ask you for forgiveness for my discourtesy
And I put my forehead on your feet.

I find that your body trembles slightly at the touch of my two tears
(Something I could have missed had not my entire skin been all ears)
I vow to you in the silence of the night: I am never leaving

You stand up and walk away
The planets admire your grace.

 Something else: Lordly and The sculptor. Smalles.t.

بلٹ پروف

ان کے ہاتھ دراز ہیں

اور ان کی عقلوں پر پٹّی پڑی ہے

رب! اب آپ پاکستان مہں صرف

بلٹ پروف بچے بھیجیے گا۔

In memory of the Peshawar school attack (16.12.2014).

Also read: An Open Letter From a Dead Child To His Mother On His Death Anniversary.

Relief

You close your eyes and your thoughts bubble up. Spread out from all corners. Wear the fabric of varying vibrant words. Very soon, they are carrying meanings and colors. A dance happens. A beautiful, rhythmical dance. You like it because it has all your soul. You see parts of yourself you had been waiting to see. And you realize you can hold it lightly from the tip of your wand and place it down on paper. There, it can live forever as a poem.

But you don’t do that. You force it away. You shove it powerfully with your hands– all those thoughts and words– and you push the splendid dancer in a grey, dark cell. She falls and she quietens, and she holds her bruised arm. You can’t see the colors anymore and you sigh with relief.

 

free

There comes a time when
Deleting people and numbers and letters and songs
Becomes easy.
As if,
They weren’t entire chapters in your life but were
Mere sentences.

(And sometimes, you have to call that upon yourself.)

Souled

 forever  dancing
 to  the  beat  of this  music 
 enthralled  ,  absorbed  ,  yours 

flamenco by justyna kopania

Haiku #15 ~ Image: Flamenco by Justyna Kopania.