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
