30/01/2016 by Siddiqui Fayesal
The sun was red,
As it sat in bed,
All worried and gold, and blood it bled,
Like its nerves were racked
And from its pain it fled.
The grass was green,
And in farms it preened,
Swaying in the air all tall and lean.
A sentient God,
It sang a tune Unseen.
The trees stood still,
Its roots it drilled
And with greens it filled,
The air, the world and the space
While it beautifully trilled.
The sheep bleats a tune
Of lost fortunes,
In stories it sings of ancient runes,
Of Magic and Witches and
The pockmarked Moon.
While the city breathed its last,
It laid, silent, in its deathly cask.
The grey and brown and the growing dark,
Its end was near, its mouth
Spewed venom and its visage marred.
The concrete jungle gasped,
Its last breath ran out and rasped.
The sound of death was close at hand.
Gone was the strength of the mighty
Sun, the Moon, the trees and the grass.
One half fought.
The other half lost.
Evils and denials to the fore were brought,
And their smiles were stretched and taut.
Then the smiles slid out and died and died,
As the end was near but the result naught.
- Paragraph 1 and 2 at work on 09.11.2015.
- Paragraph 3 at work on 26.11.2015
- Paragraph 4 at work on 17.11.2015.
- Paragraph 5 at Home on 26.01.2016.
- Paragraph 6 and 7 at Haaris’s Pune Residence on 30.01.2016.