Symphony

By Kainat Azhar

I am in love with a dead sage who is an epitome of death

and the painter of hell. He puts his fangs in my neck,

I experience a new world unfolding itself in front of

my eyes: tigers and wolves dance alike on an old symphony

of a vanished civilization, blood drips on the trees, angels die

and we make costumes of threaded time for their burial.

 

The wall of my skin separates the holy from the unholy. Inside

my heart hangs the death-mask of Dante and Von Gogh’s

lifeless ear. My mind shuts down when Picasso’s brush

move over my naked back; water colors penetrate

in my pores and mix with the red wine flowing in my veins.

 

The vastness of my name frightens me. It’s Urdu for Universe.

For me, it’s a place inside a comatose’s head where vultures

dive in the sea and jelly fishes are eaten alive.

 

Image by Kainat Azhar


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