Another Verse between Me and My Poem

Amidst harsh cruelty and metaphors of violence, the poet, and his poem are split apart, in this verse by Ayub, exclusively for Different Truths.

In the yellow muddled morn,

Thinking of waking up,

From the green sleep,

To place the bowl of dream,

At the threshold of sun

The day breaks,

Then I leave the bed recollecting the courage,

To pull up the stone of day,

On the top of evening, 

And fill up the lunch-box,

With a hope to accomplish,

All that is necessary but half-done duties,

As soon as I step out the threshold,

I and my route go somewhere else asunder.

The sight of thoughtful eyes,

Astray in the lonesomeness of noon,

In the empty street,

At the road-crosses,

Then in silence-assumed,

Horrified drab houses enfolded,

With ragged, sharp edges bricks,

Squeezed within their own selves,

Dazzles with shine of some impossibility

From all directions.

The black moments, from head to toe,

Chain the heart with some nameless fear,

While walking onward,

The route vanishes itself,

I go somewhere else,

And thoughts go astray somewhere else.

The evening devoid of stars,

Honked by the troops of darkness,

From all directions,

Force it to the canopy of my heart;

Terror of lances, daggers, swords, shields

Blow out the glow of eyes

As harsh wind does

In such darkness

A hand cannot feel the other,

I terrify myself,

Pulsation breaks from the heart,

And becomes a frozen drop of blood.

In such frozen darkness the collection of words,

Stringed on the cord of pain shatters,

I go somewhere else,

Lines of the poem go astray somewhere else.

Between me and my poem,

The lonesomeness sinking in the marshes,

Of day and night,

In the abyss of my inner self,

Fragrance sprouting from the tree of pang,

Doesn’t get the passage,

And enters through the arches of my chest.

A breath comes and the other goes,

And to this chain of breaths,

This fragrance perfumes to the gusts of pain

Adorns loneliness with gems of dew,

Hanging on the lashes,

Then strikes a stone of the yellow morn,

Upon my torso through the windows,

Of green sleep,

In such a way as I roll down somewhere else,

The poem goes astray somewhere else. 

©Ayub Khawar

Photos from the Internet

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