every time a poet dies…

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.

 

 

 

 

 

final goodbye…

death.

what is it?

people walking around you. people you were so accustomed to meet every now often. people you wake up with. people you grow up with. people youre emotionally involved with. people. your people. cease to exist. just like that. without proper goodbyes. without any goodbye.

no its not just they who stop existing. its the whole world they were part of decides to show how things are so different without them. how theyll remain so different without them. because theyve stopped existing. disappeared. now the sky wont be as blue as it is supposed to be. now the birds no longer sing their morning songs but keep humming the elegies. now the sunset would lose its hues before even being noticed. now the world around you moves but in silence. in dead silence. you pass by several streets. and more streets. and you keep walking but you dont stop. because you cant stop. because you dont know how to stop. because those who walked you down the streets have disappeared. now you dont know how to stop.

how easy. within a blink of an eye. that easy. and people are gone. and you keep staring at this parting. questions. so many lurking around. full of remorse. regrets. keep pounding. was this really the parting. the letting go thing. or was it something to dwell and nurture inside of you. the separation. the final goodbye without any goodbye.

so how you cope with it then. knowing things would have been better. slightly. the last phone call. the last meeting. the last dinner. the last walk. the last laughter. the last prayer. the last argument. if only we knew they were the last. we should have known. we deserve to know.

no one deserves to die without their final goodbye. at least those left behind deserve to have their say. how theyre going to survive with heavy hearts then. how theyre going to move ahead then. their skies wont be same again. not even blue. their sunsets wont have any color. their birds wont even sing for them. because they were just a final goodbye away. and it made the separation way to distant to even imagine.

life. more unjust than death itself. death. turns everything at halt. stillness. around and within. void. life. it moves on. keeps moving on. death doesnt let you have your final goodbye. life. it doesnt give you enough time to mourn over your final goodbye. because life goes on. just for that very little moment you want life to stop for you but it doesnt.
how terrible it is to find that life goes on when you are being left behind. with your final goodbyes. sometimes all you want from to stop for a moment. everything. to freeze. to stay silent. to remain empty. emotionless. life. it must stop for some moments. for people like us to mourn. make amends. to settle dues. to let go. life must stop for us. and it pains me more when at my worst im reminded of being alive. life goes on ha. no. it shouldnt. it should have stopped. for me. for my tragedy. it shouldve mourned with me. it should have shed some tears with me. it. should. have.

poem

with wreckage around

and turmoil abound

in forgotten corners

with distant mourners

treading in silence

with utmost abidance

humming the tales

of afflicted ails

of empty spaces

and dreary traces

of hopes, lingering

like hearts, withering

of wearied sighs

and incessant cries

of looming death

and drowsy breath