This air has a persistent feeling of death.
I can hear cries of mothers. Their wail is loud enough to choke the molecules around my ear
yet I keep my eyes on the wall
and watch the bricks falling.
Sitting inside a home feels worse when spring is falling asleep.
On the tender branch of the neem tree
I hang my poem about bitterness
Sitting inside a home feels good when winter is approaching.
To the world around my ribcage, I might be a heartbroken lover
but for the world around my eyes, I am just another sadist.
I talk of the lost love and the new lover together.
People call me a cheater
I only hear the cries.
What is meant to begin will mark an ending.
but on the broken rib cage inside humans, there will always be a silence.
The silence that won’t become a burden
unless you start talking about it.
I didn’t mean to write. I didn’t want to write.
The reasons for this poem are lost in translations where Urdu is read as Persian and almost each one of us understands.
Apparently, pain has no language.
It isn’t written but felt.
Keep reading here sameera.art.blog/2020/05/05/165/
This poem is hauntingly beautiful. I fell in love with words today.