History


History Cover Image
Share

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