i wonder why with every passing day the world seems more distant. it gets unfamiliar with every sun passing away. with every rotation the earth feels more away from its axis. unable to stand. as if losing the balance. the ground. its solid ground that kept everything so intact. and everything gradually bit by bit falling apart.
the earth now feels in a constant state of mourning. like a widow. no like a mother. who keeps losing her children. to circumstances unknown. to reasons unimagined. her healing hasnt started yet. because she hasnt stopped losing her kids yet. and theres no healing for her. theres never a healing for a mother who loses her children to circumstances unknown. to reason unimagined. theres only grief. grief that multiplies with time. grief that becomes her language then. mother language. grief of which now her house stands on. she doesnt call it home. it can never be a home. its something like a portal to suffering. a mere grief house. like her heart. and our earth. grief is her synonym now.
i dont know but death of a literary giant always hit differently. so close yet distant. what do we do with this feeling. that we cant put in words. words that have their own demise then. a funeral of words. stories. poetry. books. a funeral of literature. where the only word left alive to mourn is grief. it is bound to hit different and deep.
i dreamt of a gathering. so heavenly so divine. poets eveyrwhere. poets i read growing up. poets i studied growing up. omer rumi hafez khusro fareed waris bhulleh shah and their likes. exchanging wisdom. exchanging words with wisdom. faiz nasir sahir keats shelley derwish naguib agha shahid and their likes writing back to their lands. ode to their respective homes. yes homes they never had. there was rabia emily sylvia eliot maya christina amrita weaving words with emotions.
it was so sublime. them all together. there were so many words lingering. but what remained so prominent was the aura they had. they all had. something beyond languages they had command on. beyond the nationalities they were born with. beyond any confinement of physical world.
what was there that kept them so united. i believe it was their grief. grief. that was their common language. grief. their nationality. grief. their home. their abode. grief they so heartily wore over their hearts. grief they wrote so eloquently. grief they walk down their streets with. grief they drank down the tea houses. grief their eyes were so accustomed to.
the world was slightly better a place with them. because they shared its grief. they were holding its weight. its burden. with them gone turning to stars. the earth has lost its balance. its grief has piled up so much that it made it lose its balance. every time a poet dies the earth dies a little more. it moves further way from the axis. it leaves the world off balance. breaks its harmony. its peace. its silence. every time a poet dies a language dies along. leaving the words hanging in the middle never to be read again. every time a poet dies the earth dies a little more.