There are myths and faith and in between these two islands is the motherland of my words Something that I cannot fathom like ‘Iman’ and still believe in with the faith of a crusader in Reconquista. Which I am the father and yet a beget , I wander amidst my words, the archipelago of verse, rhythm and rhyme Imbibing myself in the forgetfulness of your loss and a dried cloud of tears. In this solitude of a traveler my words accompany me, my shadow, my soul and your receding thoughts.
It is like the unassuming end to something I cannot quite name,
Which wanders among the old paraphernalia like yellowed books, musty
closets hallowed songs and the garden swings of winter homes. Flows like a river with sudden rushes and sounds like psalms of ‘Hubal’, noble and transient lives like an ancient land of pagan rituals.
Wandering into lost times within ghostly neighborhood where I wither in
broken silences dissolving in the water streams of fate. I am vacant, I am waiting, I am patient Like the summer rains.
Thus in the here would my poem stay without any repents or heart bleeds Without the dismantling of critiques and the clasping congregation of approvers Where men are yet to hear the war chants but brave enough to reason Where Firdaus’s heaven would not cry for silences and hell is unknown, unseen Waiting for the soft muffles of your name as its full stops and commas and words and letters. And now for the thousand nights that my poem is awake, I leave my door ajar, Come through.