THE DAYS ARE DRY / Poem by Ayub Khawar

Poem by Ayub Khawar
The days are dry
As dry as my thorn-pricked throat,
Whirlwinds are the chains of their feet,
They bear the termite eaten blanket
Of yellow dingy sunlight,
Like prisoners bearing shackles
Over the raised feeble shoulder-bones,
The days are drab,
The days are dry and very annoyed too
They stand bare-footed,
Bare-headed like me,
Tattered dress,
Ragged like palms of hands and souls of feet
These days are like cracked bones of my chest.
In the network of veins of these days,
There runs the thirst of deserts,
Instead of greens,
Sand drifts on their lips,
If you peek in their ruined eyes,
You will see the pigeons of illusions,
Wing-curtailed blind pigeons,
Imprisoned into their own flutter.
O! My beloved,
These days, like mine,
In their hollow chests the suns are embedded
In such a way as they will have,
In their destiny.
No evening,
Nor any wall of the night of fusion,
In the shade of which,
Having blue moons of vows in their hands,
They could lean
But for whom,
Think awhile!
Their glow is futile for a person with torn dress,
And soil-pertained like me!
Copyright Reserved 2019

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