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
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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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