1.
Through my half-open windows seasons come and go;
I feel like Pound at St. Elizabeth’s - certified insane,
not to mince matters nor one’s talk about the dreams
that this world gives out of its sheer philanthropy.
I remember my heart never glittered like drops of water
even as I looked at golden corn swaying in the wind;
no birds’ twittering but only metallic clangs everywhere.
Oh! I envy those pigs wallowing together in the sty.
Somewhere at a long stretch of time I remember
driving down the street to stay in another city’s hotel,
I felt loneliness as in the dry barren fields of a desert.
Just to find solace, I have ransacked metaphysics
and then known flat denial of unrest ain’t worth the pain
that I suffer as loneliness pierces my ‘lukewarm’ heart
like icicles from arctic cliffs fall upon the North sea.
Nothing fights back the tough strains of it in the crowd.
Reading this journal means - you may have to retch:
my moments stink as corpses in the charnel house,
I’d have nullified the stench had I got Persian perfume.
I have seen nauseous serpents slip out of Time’s cunt.
Sofiul Azam