The Fire

He said he knew how to play with fire
and fed tinder to a shy little spark,
coaxing her into a blue and gold flame
that lit up his murky dark

He said he wasn’t afraid of being burnt
and built her into a bonfire of his dreams,
but soon he was scrambling back,
and she could hear his frightened screams

He said she should have been more careful
as he dug a pit to douse her with sand,
yet there she was burning blindingly
and there she still stands



Gypsy Breaths

Haunting reflections in the mirror:
those dark eyes brimming with memories;
moments that do not belong just to me.

Starry nights on summer rooftops—
the breaths given to you were never mine;
now what do I do with all this air?

Tendrils of me with no whispers to share:
there is no longer a heart to seep into,
though mine still listens for a loving echo.

All my breaths now stir in an endless dance;
a gypsy walking down a long, dusty road;
a moth glimmering around a dying fire.




Dreams

I dreamt that I lit a cigarette on a rooftop in New York
while you inhaled the noxious fumes in Lahore

I dreamt that I ran my heart over with a sleek car
as you silently watched from a shadowed balcony

I dreamt of running up an endless marble staircase
while our bittersweet laughter echoed around me

I dreamt of cradling a shimmering green dress
while I watched you ready a magnificent bonfire

I dreamt of rushing down the aisle under a stormy sky
as a thousand songs played in a split second

I dreamt of our entwined hands glistening with black ink
which then broke apart and faded away into nothingness

I dreamt about watching you from within a mirror
as you fixed your tie and turned around to her

I dreamt and dreamt till I woke up to a hollow room
while snow fell hauntingly outside my window

 



Untitled #5


So we let the fire

catch us unaware,

but we burned in

glory and not shame:

embracing the inevitability

of things that shape us

into the strength

we are today





—About the poet, Werda Shermeen Zia



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