...Out of some irrepressible urge of talking, I tried to talk to a sparrow, a daily guest who used to sit on my window frame and sometimes hopped on to some twig of the only uncared for tree, a loner like me. I was bold enough in my attempt as if to disturb her calm and poised loneliness, but as I called her she did not pay attention to me; I was shocked, humiliated, I felt my thoughts dying inside, and saw my ready words wasted in the air, but I thought, she must be justified, and must be occupied with the thoughts of flying back to her nest before the darkening of the shadows from grey to black, I curbed my wish and let her fly, if not me, at least she should go to her home.
The butterflies were tender though but carefree to the extent of being stubborn in their attitudes, they made me realize the alien state of my being; they did not need my love as if I did not belong to their garden, who just came there as a wanderer in search of some rare feel of joy, I read in their language the words of alienation. Then I felt really alone, and sat under the sky in wait for the moon, for I had known her to be a lonely dweller of the night-sky, the deep, translucent blue tended to darkness, I read somewhere that two loners make a good company, but when the moon ascended to my deep disappointment, there was some revelry in the celebration of her luminous loneliness…the solitary moon, the proud moon, enjoying its company among the sycophant starry maids-of-honor; I found her too busy to hear the convulsed words of a suppressed spirit of a loner; putting all my ego aside, I made signs to invite her attention but I received one message as if she said to me: “I give the light, and shine the night, I warm the heart, enrich the life, what else? ...”
Unnecessary tears started flowing from the eyes despite the struggle to keep them inside, I sat there, not completely broken though, as if supported from above, I opened the book of my joined hands and started reading the poems of fate composed in the long and short curved lines, the essence that I received stayed with me forever that though my hand was never held but it was enough that my hand was a holding one...
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Comments about this poem (One Evening by Shahzia Batool )
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