The story of a city!

You ask ...
why did you stop writing?
Have the birds
in the poems left you alone?
or the butterflies
you were fancied of
betrayed you?
or the rainbow in the sky
split with you?
and those mountains that you adored
covered with white snow
wearing white shawl in the autumn
have they melt-down in grief too?
and the rivers,
who used to dance on night's tune
are they moaning too?
and the moon
and the sky
and the stars that were good friends of you
shared so many stories with you...
where are they all gone now?

You will ask so many questions
Then...
I will tell you sweetheart
a story
with images drawn
painted with sands
and with that
I will portray the nuances and the unsaid
and you will get the answer
a story….
where the city and people becomes one
to share the same grief
as cruelly as they can.

Up in the north
I lived in a city
in that city
there was a village
at the bank of a canal
from there you could see
what you never see
love, peace and tranquility
I remember the hot summer
boys playing
in the graveyard
not the game of death but Cricket
and girls
playing "Chindro" in the silence of the noon
I can remember their small fights
their dolls made of clothe
that mulberry tree
their lips red with ripened mulberries.

I can remember the passing dogs too
that black cat with her sharp eyes
who loved the milk
I can remember the goats
and the herd of sheep..
and the rare caravan of camels passing through
I remember that
as fresh as the aroma of that perfume
that you wear last night
when you met me
in my dream.....!

My city was called the city of flowers....
like her name
she always revealed herself
through a vibrant array of characters:
I remember her gardens
Parks
lawns and flowers
I remember
her evenings dressed with love
her mornings
her balconies
narrow street
fruit sellers and their stalls
loud with big voices
the voices of merchants.

But one morning,
I woke up
rubbed my eyes
and saw...
bonfire
bones of people
sounds of bombs
the gun powder
that they gave us
and the dogma
that they preached us
and a ruined city.

Sweetheart
there was nothing left for us
except shattered dreams
and sad reality
bitter like a poison
but who can see truth
and sip
the bitter taste of reality
that poison from that bowl
with pride and dignity
another Socrates....
standing for truth in the city of flowers?
or the big heart of my city?
like the heart of my mother
deeply grieved
asking for more?
And then you will get the answer.

(Farid Gul, London, 4th July 2009)