Dates with Ms. History

358

By Feroz Rather


Raindrops of love

at dawn, a song of dove

on your lips,  and me and you

half buried in a yellow evanescence of sands,

holding (epochs in our) hands

by the sea.

 

Frozen crusts of Time,

countless clocks clattering behind me

an apocalyptical chime.

 

Naked in the blue rivers of Kashmir

she bathes, her veins burbling with blood,

fish, stones, winged slogans, a raging flood

soaring soaring soaring

until the promise and rain of freedom…

 

Alone, through the smoke and rubble

of a distant village now asleep by a snow-hill

she walks, to the cities of summer invisible

in the manacles of endless siege.

 

Raindrops of love

at dawn a song of dove

on your lips, and me and you,

raindrops, on the string of Time,

holding (epochs in our) hands—

the debris of dreams of peoples forgotten,

of bygone cultures and religions,

customs buried under catacombs,

of erstwhile empires of insects, reptiles, gymnosperms,

all mummies in the substance of language—

on a yellow evanescence of sands,

as the sun slides down into God’s ageing universe,

and oblivion of night hugs the sea.

 —

Feroz Rather is attending the MFA program at California State University Fresno and works as an editorial assistant at The Normal School.


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