History Cover Image

At what point exactly


does History grayscale?


As it undoes itself ( not



the way my grandpa


rolls out a yarn, thread by thread )


on reflective glass:



leaf by leaf, drained of 


colour, traversing ochre twilight


at dusk between



stars, who


with celestial impatience


wedge the moon to its edge and


after an eternity really


in a prelapsarian longing



centuries anachronistically 


dim into one place


by the clatter of chains—


held fast by the hands of time.



The dawn descends upon


us in a frenzied calm


when the zephyr turns to stone



by canopies of silent birdsong:


to behold lilacs


blooming in cold blood


and then… silence



chiselled onto our hearts


like worms


that eat apples, raw.




We see ghosts


emerging from their ruins


in the womb of the earth


as if out of thin air



concealing memories in shards


lost in time's lullaby to 


a nightmarish silence,



stunned to oblivion,


tongues cut in half 


to ask the promised questions:



“Who would awaken us to life,


if not for rain?”



“Where is he, in whose hands


rests our fate,


like a child, asleep?”



They can barely whisper


of death


staring into their faces 


like a stoic grim reaper,



of bleak shadows and desiccated dreams


like Quinces decayed in clusters.

Written By:

Zeeshan Ali