Bechainiyon Ka Ghar: Iztiraar

where in this vast world
is another sorrowful soul like me?

i look in the mirror,
but I don’t see myself
a face dissolved,
just two ears, four hands,
and the faint stroke of a dying sun

the lines of this life
draw and erase themselves,
like a child’s fragile castles of sand,
crumbling, rebuilt,
until what remains
is only the spell of having existed

how do I say I am sad,
if no one will listen?
how do I say I am lonely,
if no one will hold me close?
In my city, there is no one
to call my own

Why do I think so much?
damn this heart,
this depth that pulls me under
so deep that I didn’t know
when I fell,
when breathing became a struggle
in the ocean’s cradle

what wind shall I name,
what force caused this sorrow?

how do I forget
that you too were a king
of sandcastles,
and I, their fleeting shadow in the tide?

smear ash over this flesh,
let the smoke rise like prayers
let the house gleam with light,
let the hearth burn with warmth
i am gone
and with me,
so is the weight of all that sorrow.

Thread Of Becoming

 

what is a life

but the needle’s pass

through the fabric of the void?

a pattern emerges,

not of our choosing,

woven by hands unseen,

guided by whispers

that ripple through the ether

god

is it the weaver,

or the thread itself?

is it the loom’s creak,

the spark of tension in the fibers,

or the silence between each stitch?

fate falls like rain

inevitable, indiscriminate,

are we the soil it nourishes,

or the rivers it carves,

or merely the reflection

on its fleeting surface?

a sigh of birth,

a gasp of death,

and all the fleeting laughter

in between.

the universe blinks:

a thought unfinished

does it dream us,

or do we dream it into being?

perhaps we are the loom,

its hum the rhythm of our hearts,

or the threads,

aching to unravel into meaning

perhaps we are neither,

only the breath that sets it all in motion,

and the silence when it ceases

perhaps life is the paradox:

the chaos of becoming

and the order we seek

A dance of entropy

and meaning

but when the loom stills,

when the last thread is cut,

what will remain?

FAIZ; ONLY MINE

 

i cannot bear
the syllables of you,
falling from foreign lips
a name borrowed,
but never truly yours

no shadow of you
should roam these streets,
no echo of your laughter
linger in rooms
where you do not live

if someone must mirror your face,
let their name be yours.
if their smile wears your shade,
let it be claimed by your sun

for what is a name,
but a river that flows only to you?
and what is love,
but a refusal to let the world
borrow your existence,
even for a moment?

let no one else carry
the weight of your syllables,
no voice but mine
call them to life.

for you are not a name.
you are the silence
that breathes between the letters,
the pause that lingers,
the ache that remains.

Shifts

 

a soft light against my searing skin,

like the moon to a burnt horizon,

it is the way flames flicker

before they are swallowed whole.

hidden

beneath the deep belly of the ocean,

in the darkest caverns of salt and sorrow,

fighting the pull

watching silently,

as the tides shift,

adjusting to the friction,

learning the contours of a world

that no longer wants it to burn.

should the volcano erupt,

shatter the silence with its roar?

should the molten fury of regret

spill into the world,

consuming everything it touches?

or should it remain hidden

the heat trapped beneath the waves,

the pressure building

in places no one can see?

what’s more tragic

the flames that char everything they adore

or the trembling in the heart,

waiting for the touch that might ignite?

it fears the touch of calm,

the quiet that asks it to be still.

for to be still is to fade,

to surrender its blazing heart

to the ocean’s depths.

so they wait as all things do

caught between what is and what could be

and the silence that stretches

into eternity.

Sweet Braided Hair

 

how lovely are your hands

on me, one last time

gentle hands moving to a rhythm 

you scrape the vinyl into its place

& hum, adding jasmines to my hair

lentils unsorted under the midday sun

undoing your camphor-like skin, 

words hung heavy in the air

shadows tilting,

beneath the watchful gaze of the sun

the sada bahaar blooms.

your fingers press into my wrist,

like the last note of a song,

soft, lingering,

then gone.

the jasmine scent stays

but you?

you slip like sunlight,

through the spaces between us.

the scent of sun-baked earth,

mixed with the salt of old tears,

winds around us.

and still, you hum,

though i am no longer there to hear.

The Return

 

Everything she starts, she leaves in pieces.

the fire, it calls

falling,

floating

she leaves things halfway.

a kiss,

a promise,

a plan.

like a whisper in the wind

fading out before a touch

she returns to her world

the world halfway between dusk and dawn

painted shadows &

endless mirages 

the wolf in her heart knows all too well

a creature caught between worlds

putting out the warmth 

before it burns her

her heroes

all ghosts in the firelight

like dying embers

she is her father’s daughter.

smothering the lamps

on her departure.

it should have been so simple.

but it never is.

a dog.

"I feel like a dog, I cry like a dog


Matted mange and muzzled maw 

With gnashing teeth that bite and gnaw


Hide under the couch with a tail between legs

Hackles raised, I curl my spine 

Twisted and bent to comply the confines


It's pathetic and demeaning 

To suffer this feeling 

Desperately pleading at the foot of your throne 

Begging and begging 

For a glimpse of the bone"