Poetry

September 1, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Leeroy photo

 

By

Shabir Ahmad Mir

 

 

 

 

Ghazal

 

 

A thousand moons putrefy in the waiting eyes of this dark city.

How lost we are in the labyrinth of lies in this small city!

 

At nights when termites of silence gnaw at her streets,

I wake up and listen to the cries of this crumbling city.

 

Some disappear without a trace; some leave a convoluted trail-

Unfortunately, not everyone dies in this irreal city.

 

You can plough the horizon with all your songs of dawn,

But, till they open their eyes, not a sun shall rise in this barren city.

 

People gather and raise their eyes: there-their saviors have come!

At noon, when the vultures fly, across the skies of this hungry city.

 

The refuge of that rain that never fell again. Anywhere.

O slayer of memories, what else do you despise in this ruined city?

 

There is no reason to it. No sense! It isn’t even arbitrary!

They kill us for their sport, we are all flies in this ungodly city.

 

 

 

 

A Villanelle

 

 

The news on TV says the weather is fine.

I see through my window- a man has died.

‘We will be back with more news at nine.’

 

What a day! What a bright sunshine!

And the blood on streets will soon get dried,

Indeed, as the TV said, the weather is fine.

 

Everything is alright there, everything fine.

Don’t worry, there is nothing they can hide

Won’t we see it all with our News at Nine?

 

A few misreports- yes; but they were benign.

They have never ever intentionally lied:

See for yourself- O! how the weather is fine!

 

Rest assured, everyone can wine and dine

Whatever- good or bad- that happens outside,

They will decide for us with their news at nine.

 

No one is crying- just dogs at their whine

Close the door and sit back tight

We know by now the weather is fine

Hush, hush; they are back with more news at nine.

 

 

 

 

 

Shabir Ahmad Mir

Shabir Ahmad Mir from Gudoora, Pulwama Kashmir; gets bored every now and then. And out of this boredom he scribbles- sometimes in prose and sometimes in verse; and occasionally in ink as well-blue and black only. Earlier he used to scribble on loose paper leaves of his class-notes (he sometimes imagines that they were fallen leaves of a forgotten tree) but now he mostly scribbles on his Facebook wall.

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