The Word

This poem is a response to a rhythmic one written by Miss Tayyeba Irum.

Pal Szinyei Merse, Lovers, 1869

My World,

Remember how you once,
imprinted on my soul,
like a word,
from the spirits and the angels…
breaking defenses,
forcing me into a submission.
Making me forgo of everything,
I did to replace an inevitable.

Remember how you once,
carried me on your lips,
like a word,
forming wishes,
and hefty prayers…
capturing me into a vial of existence.
Not leaving a moment from sight,
not letting it evaporate in thin-air.

Remember how you once,
made me carry, an instrument,
like a word,
to repel insurgents…
To bleed a river that would
never surrender,
but live to sail vessels that carried
the messages of love.

Remember how you once
kept me close to your chest,
like a word,
said but yet in a muffled texture.
Like a pendant unfolded in a secret,
to reveal two faces of one mirror.
Like a letter that is kissed,
right at the moment of its arrival.

Remember how we once,
used to savor each other,
like a word,
that lend strength,
to march forward,
to put on with the trials of the world.
To replenish on everything we loved,
to endorse all that mattered.

Remember how we once,
used to wear each other,
like a word,
that would command
even fumes of heavens
to be acquiescent.
For them to seek a resort,
in embraces we referred as our castle.

Remember them,
before you revisit how
we came to state,
where…

You dropped me
from your eyes,
like a word
of an aged sinner,
stilliciding from the walls of
a confession chamber.
I wish now just, to become,
your only redemption.

You erased traces of mine
from your tongue,
like a word,
of poison imbued curse…
Forsaking everything that
was responsible to make
you indulge in cadence.
Now, I live in pages, as a song,
waiting to be sung.

You uttered me,
like a word,
of an extinct language…
found only written
in crypts hosting
docile sarcophagus.
Leaving me in ruins,
like an echo restless,
forever sentenced to linger.

You eradicated me
from your memories,
like a word
of an alien dialect,
accidentally heard.
Now, I too seek an exile,
from contours of enslavement,
hoping a déjà vu may occur.

You lost me
from contours of your eyes,
from grips of your fingers,
like a word,
written in a book forbidden.
Now, where am I to be found,
if not in sand or in depths of the ocean.

You foreshadowed my demise,
like a word,
from Monarchs and Caesars,
self-fulfilling,
ceasing an air out,
planting a last nail in coffin.
Honor your word now, and return,
my shrine to your temple!

Give nomad a courtesy of last word... make me a part of your final touch!

Give nomad a courtesy of last word… let beloved leave on me a final touch!

– Dedicated to outcasts and exiled… the words, waiting to be said, waiting to be written.

Image Credits:

1. Lovers (Pal Szinyei Merse) 1869 [Blogspot]
2. The martyrdom of St. Sebastian (Hans Memling) [Flickr]

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