Four seasons back
In a morose rain
Pelting sharp upon nimble naked boughs
And rows, of wild berries
Running amuck in an unruly strain.
The tree is a full bloom now
Of white satin flowers
Swirling against a beaming blue
Tonight, as night keeps a vigil over my eyes
I get under my squally Cherry Tree
And suddenly I see it ailing
Sick old moon peeps through its branches
And I hear them crackle, not clear though
Moaning unobtrusive, through a wicked grin.
The moon lingers on long
Shining painfully in the womb of night.
I feel the stiffening wood coagulate in my veins
As blackness suffuses unbridled
In the cold wilderness of mind.
April never was summer in Kashmir
Look unto these dark skies
Those pierce the ether yet once more
Pelting mercilessly upon
The ailing, armourless beings
Whereby the cruel moon grins
And my heart wilts with each withering flower
Knocked down in the mud by
The unsparing shower.
Tears trickle down the smeared petals
And I collect them into my eyes
Till the plethora can no longer be contained
I let them fall
Into the capacious bosom of earth
And in this cruel April rain
My Cherry Tree shivers.
Moans. Weeps. Over me.
About the author
Syed Rabe’a Bukhari, published her first work when she was in 7th Grade in 2003.
For her, writing is something which keeps coming back and acts as a potent device to portray the simmering anguish and choking emotions of those around her. She writes so to carve a memorial, however small on the fleeting pages of time. Now she writes to cure her maladious soul
photography wp theme