Tazha Ruman Adhami
And we continue to live like feeble slaves in the cruel hands of time and will. After all the storms of life, today after many pale moons, I sit by these steep and frozen dales of turmoil.
I wonder how this frosty breeze hugging me in the starlit night would have felt if fantasies shook hands with realities. How this coldness would have fallen on my skin if dreams and realities would have met in these dales of longing…
This aura brings strangeness from another deep dale of my heart, still mourning on the debris of memory. Yes, memories rise from rubble.
A prickle of moment sprinkles life to the frozen realities. This aura prickles my skin now as it plays the music of melancholy inside my frantic veins. This cloudy moon bears witness to my tears; these stars seem to burn in sorrow. This dark-cold blanket of night wails as fails to envelop dreams and realities together…
These few intact leaves, to the nude trees, listen to my laments for liberation from the prison of memory. And yet the rains drench them again with life, the frozen realities!