Wellcome To My World
Tanha Musafir

Faisal Shahzad

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English Poetry

 


 

 

The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God’s last *Put out the Light* was spoken.

 




 

 

 

A light exists in spring 
Not present on the year 
At any other period. 
When March is scarcely here

 

 

A color stands abroad 
On solitary hills 
That science cannot overtake, 
But human naturefeels.

 

 

It waits upon the lawn; 
It shows the furthest tree 
Upon the furthest slope we know; 
It almost speaks to me.

 

 

Then, as horizons step, 
Or noons report away, 
Without the formula of sound, 
It passes, and we stay:

 

 

A quality of loss 
Affecting our content, 
As trade had suddenly encroached 
Upon a sacrament.

 




 

Because I could not stop for Death, 
He kindly stopped for me; 
The carriage held but just ourselves 
And Immortality.

 

 

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, 
And I had put away 
My labor, and my leisure too, 
For his civility.

 

 

We passed the school where children played, 
Their lessons scarcely done; 
We passed the fields of gazing grain, 
We passed the setting sun.

 

 

We paused before a house that seemed 
A swelling of the ground; 
The roof was scarcely visible, 
The cornice but a mound.

 

 

Since then ‘t is centuries; but each 
Feels shorter than the day 
I first surmised the horses’ heads 
Were toward eternity.

 




 

Outside the sky is light with stars; 
There’s a hollow roaring from the sea. 
And, alas! for the little almond flowers, 
The wind is shaking the almond tree.

 

 

How little I thought, a year ago, 
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee 
That he and I should be sitting so 
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

 

 

Light as feathers the witches fly, 
The horn of the moon is plain to see; 
By a firefly under a jonquil flower 
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

 

 

We might be fifty, we might be five, 
So snug, so compact, so wise are we! 
Under the kitchen-table leg 
My knee is pressing against his knee.

 

 

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, 
The tap is dripping peacefully; 
The saucepan shadows on the wall 
Are black and round and plain to see.

 



 

The rows of cells are unroofed, 
a flute for the wind’s mouth, 
who comes with a breath of ice 
from the blue caves of the south.

 

 

O dark and fierce day: 
the wind like an angry bee 
hunts for the black honey 
in the pits of the hollow sea.

 

 

Waves of shadow wash 
the empty shell bone-bare, 
and like a bone it sings 
a bitter song of air.

 

 

Who built and laboured here? 
The wind and the sea say 
-Their cold nest is broken 
and they are blown away-

 

 

They did not breed nor love, 
each in his cell alone 
cried as the wind now cries 
through this flute of stone.

 




 

 

Acholiland oh acholiland,
The once happy mother of proud warriors,
To you we wail,
For redemption from the fangs of terror,
The terror that bleeds us white,
The terror that siphons your blood 
that runs in our veins,

 

 

Lambs without a shepherd we remain,
Driven away from you into the darkness,
Mama we yearn for an end to our misgivings,
Oh! Acholiland,

 

 

Do you hear us when we call out to you?
When our cries run our voices frail,
When wantons hunt us, your children down,
The harmony you taught us is no more,
Your children have learnt the little art of 
unleashing terror,

 

 

Unfortunately on your very siblings,
Pain is all we feel and grim is what we see,
Blood is what we pay for being your children,
Oh! Mother, spread your wings and redeem 
us, to rise and shine again.

 




 

In bookstores there are no books, 
in books no words, 
in words no essence: 
there are only husks.

 

 

In museums and waiting rooms 
are painted canvases and fetishes. 
In the Academy there are only recordings 
of the wildest dances.

 

 

In mouths there is only smoke, 
in the eyes only distance. 
There is a drum in each ear. 
A Sahara yawns in the mind.

 

 

Nothing frees us from the desert. 
Nothing saves us from the drum. 
Painted books shed their pages, 
becoming husks of Nothing.

 


 



 

 

The rose is a rose, 
And was always a rose. 
But now the theory goes 
That the apple’s a rose, 
And the pear is, and so’s 
The plum, I suppose. 
The dear only knows 
What will next prove a rose. 
You, of course, are a rose– 
But were always a rose.

 


 



 

 

O Rose, thou art sick! 
The invisible worm 
That flies in the night, 
In the howling storm,

 

 

Has found out thy bed 
Of crimson joy: 
And his dark secret love 
Does thy life destroy.

 


 



 

Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secresy the human dress.

 

 

The human dress is forged iron,
The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart its hungry gorge.