A letter

I am in the middle of a desert, 

 with no water, no food, 

 but i am not waiting for either, 

 I am waiting for a letter from you. 

 A letter that says you eat well. 

 May be that you sleep peacefully. 

 I see a mirage though. 

 Like a shadow of someone walking by a lake.

A lake I know is not real.

 I am waiting for a letter from miles away. 

 Miles I cannot even count on my fingers. 

 You love sending letters.

 You would send one out of the blue.

 I am waiting for the letter. 

 A letter that says "I remember". 

~The book of letters 

Shafaq Shahid

The dead

The dead shall speak for the ones alive, 

not knowing the alive are deaf. 

The dead shall scream, 

not knowing the alive are deaf, 

The dead shall whine, 

everyone shall see,

but none shall hear, 

for they are deaf.

pashmeena

Where did you get that pashmeena? 

So many colors, colors one will never find? 

-- I have woven this with threads I found, 

from the river to the sea, 

in a land that was not free. 

The red thread I found, 

stuck in a branch of a tree, 

drenched in blood, 

of my beloved. 

The beige one I found

on the windowsill of a house

with the mother shedding love

and hope from her eyes, 

waiting for the son 

who never left to return  

The pink as you see, 

is the one from the cheeks, 

of the children of my land, 

Smiling and shy they stand. 

The blue as you see 

is what I borrowed from the sky, 

vast and clear and free

Like my land will be ! 

~Shafaq Shahid

Barzakh

I saw roses from a graveyard, 

creeping over the walls, 

words written on every petal, 

as each one of them falls. 

I saw a man standing there, 

collecting petals from the road, 

keeping them in a diary, 

one petal in every fold. 

- Who writes to you from there? 

- Those are letters from Barzakh. 

My son warns me of sins, 

and the betrayal of the world. 

and he tells me how each virtue, 

grows like whorls. 

-Do the petals fall everytime? 

- No. 

 

I find one at fajr, 

it has a smile with salam 

The ones in the day

at the sound of each Azaan

The one at 'isha' is as if at peace

"you did not waste your day"

is what it reads

I ll write to you from my grave too

with flowers pink as blush

I ll write to you from my grave too, 

with the brown ink of mud. 

~Shafaq Shahid 

I am scared, 

of the night, 

when I ll end up, 

with minimum strength

in my bones

to hold 

the tired flesh of mine

Of the night when 

i ll have read every word 

of every book

on every shelf

and I ll have nothing to write. 

I am scared

of the day i run back home. 

~Shafaq

I walked past every lane

I walked with you, 

in same dresses, 

and same veils

with the moon

staring at me. 

She asked me where you were. 

May I tell her that you are

 in the days now, 

with the sun? 

That you don't walk in nights now? 

She keeps asking. 

She misses you. 

~Shafaq

Someone died,

A woman, 

very old, 

very weak, 

emaciated, 

wasted, 

from cheeks to collar bones, 

to across the bosom, 

someone cried by the bedside

someone wept their eyes out

someone choked to the last words they had to say to her

someone screamed a sorry they had to say

someone fainted for she was born to her, 

someone chanted her name, was in love with her. 

All those screams could not be heard, 

I forgot someone died, 

and could only listen to the pain, 

of people left behind, 

I walked out and went to the corridors nearby, 

Red walls, narrow lanes, 

I walked it on and off, 

a 100 times,

trying not to listen to the echoes of people whining

And when all went calm, 

I sat down on the bench, 

held my head, 

and started telling myself, 

I did not hear her crying while she was dying, 

I did not even listen to her cream once, 

I did not see her weep her eyes out. 

Staying there for an hour or so, I thought to myself, 

None of them cried for her, 

they cried for themselves, 

none of them made dua to make it easy for her after death, 

or very few did, 

very few that we did not even hear them. 

And I realised, we do not listen to misery, 

We listen to mulishness disguised as misery, but never the real one. 

We are deaf to reality. 

Everytime. 

~Shafaq Shahid