Eimaan shares a deeply evocative poem of love, loss, and longing exclusively on DifferentTruths.com.
Perfervid of the attuned anguish you spill,
I feel you, soaked in the valley's heat,
Supplied by God, you're innate to this sledge of hope,
From atop Pahalgam, we rain down a thirst for freedom.
True blue tears dampen my Papa's Amajee's quilt,
I've ensconced myself in her phiran of empyrean threads.
Ineffable gaze I only see in his words,
Meet me – pierce my ground and convulse oceans.
Ḍamīr blurred, I'll flush my asaa underneath the falling springs,
I see the shikara lights flickering.
I am not muddled about its meaning.
Lucid, I am awake on top of Dal Lake, and
The ground-shaking tune of her breath leaves me a hermit,
Wrung out, I hope for your candour.
Isolated in the piling gold of Mount Sonmarg, our
The cerebellum intertwines, guiding us towards a revelation: a revolution.
O, my companion, my companion of nature.
Hear! Our mutual rejuvenation along
the spirit of rummaging rivers and chirruped hymns of
fledgling blue whistling thrushes.
Her lily-white hand glosses over and melts my callous spine,
Pea-green auroras on her milk-stained skin
sing and evoke in me a nameless feeling.
Alas, I am blind to its meaning.
I call out her name, a rebellious supplication;
She whispers that I am at ease, that resting on her lap,
Buried in her scent, I need no tears.
They do not know; her absence has perforated my entorhinal cortex.
I have no want for their greed,
only a human need to revitalise something nameless that
has been reverberating in my calves.
I let her scent turn into an elegy.
For since the 7th Muharram, the olfactory bulb has dimmed.
Let me rejoin my siblings, drenched, asleep
Beneath the baby blows of February, Gulmarg awaits me.
A feeling that will rewire my being,
O pleasant comrade of nature, meet this feeling innate to our being.
Piled-up snow stomping my throat, frostbitten limbs.
Fawns asleep wrapped in golden leaves blown ashore
on the riverbanks. I've seen a tribute of her beauty in Pandora.
Sore limbs; I thank God for letting me be an eyelash,
She will blow off her index finger, a dent
in my hypothalamus,
a feeling that aged while I nestled in a belief.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
Artist at heart and passionate about the art of writing. Eimaan Malik is a young Mauritian who breaks the monotony of white sheets with verses tinged with a touch of black ink, echoing a bewitching, empathetic melancholy.
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