I feel a rage It’s not the flaming, blazing kind Nor is it the hating kind It’s disappointment mixed with hurt A betrayal mixed with cheerlessness It’s a whipping, bruising buffeting It’s a faded, jaded trustfulness It’s a crashing and a burning Without smoke, without fire It’s the turning into ash Of something held so close Of something tender and so dear Of a precious, precious thing Of a pearl old as the years.
I feel a rage But in its manifestation There is no acid hotness Only a painful heaviness That sits mostly in my throat Huddled there, straining to emerge In tears or in words I’m capable of neither. Even as it squeezes me Choking, asphyxiating me In its throttling stranglehold I’m hoping for some peace and grace Hoping even in the throes Of this weary, bleary rage.
When he smiles His mouth curves up a little Just a bit. The teeth don’t show. But sometimes a rare glimpse of ivory snow Peeks through. Like weathered pages From a book that has seen the ages; That has been loved, and also has Been tossed around in the hands Of those that loved it less - Now hiding its parchment yellowness
When she smiles Her cheeks skip up, joining hands With the crow’s feet at the corners Of her eyes. Hands and feet Join together in a wreathe Its flowers have been abloom a while Many now wear waning smiles Just a few are waxing still Of bountiful life taking their fill
When they look at each other He and she And they smile for all the world to see The mouths, the noses and the cheeks The enamel pearls, the crow’s feet All fade away as eyes light up; Two sets of windows brighten up Spangled pathways to twin souls. The radiant smiles reach deep inside To gently touch two pages bright Of a love story, both new and old
Mahvash Mohtadullah - The Roaming Desi 