• musings_ 92w



    In the daylight of translation, all Shahid longs from love is its beginning; the bittersweet taste of liberation in the embrace of annihilation, with the pigeons flying away in the sky, the skyline melting away into dusk, the pomegranates on the brink of explosion (seeds scattering like a handful of memories) and the night illuminating with darkness.

    this grief is a pain only pain effaces.

    on the brink of the disintegrating hour, your existence is an eulogy recited from dusk to dawn. this loss, like an apricot in the evening sun, ripens in the arms of a dull warmth every year, every summer. this ache - hues of crimson greeting the edge of a pulsated vein; the shroud of nostalgia smeared in longing, the lucidity of an obscure memory that blossoms in the tenderness of the night; one's inability to salvage a fading moment, another's venality to reinforce the non-existent.

    the essence of a forsaken form, of meaning cloaked in the realm of time, like holding a wrinkled hand, with fingers hanging like stubs of cigarettes, is feeble in all familarity. in the country of hopelessness, eons melt into transience, like salt dissolves into water and futile are all attempts to undo you from this deluge of blood that pains me (alive and brimming like a brook in my veins), both the stain and the colour, the indelibility and the ichor.

    (how do you mourn someone who's still alive?)

    quiescent in a morass of yearning;
    you, a late winter's moon; bereft of radiance in an envelope of mist, hung on the dormancy of a broken night. you, a wistful reverie, a fractured hourglass, an expanse of barreness, a dandelion caressed by the reckless wind, a remnant carved out of the banality of time, a restlessness that taints the essence of my being, a rusty, tangible ache that sits still for ages, a singed fabric (coarse in its velvet), a rusted clock, pieces of charred wood, a pulse against jagged tar, the cadence of the last song, reverberating in the air.

    (you, the unforgiving hour of midnight,
    the yearning smothered in grief,
    the affliction called hope,
    you, the pain only pain effaces.)

    In his sparkling brilliance, Shahid longs for the beginning of love (before the pigeons fly over the last sky, the sky falls under the weight of the dropping stars, pomegranates crumple to dust) because at the end we're left at the mercy of wondering:

    (how do you mourn someone who's still alive?)

    - Kainat //

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