A Stranger In The City Of Spell
In the dusty mirrors of centuries,
Who are these murky shadowed people?
Someone should resolve,
To me what the reality of Time is,
And what is the reality of Death,
What is the existence of colours and sounds?
What is this grief,
And remembrance of the departed ones?
In the dusty mirrors of centuries
Who are these murky shadowed people?
What is this lobbing echoing jingle
Of infinity in the rimless dome?
If edging boundary of the desert is actuality,
What is a mirage of the middle of wilderness?
If these reveries are life,
What is reflection of the city of dream
Visible day and night
On the undulating waves of blood?
What is the rite of lands that forms
Isles of intimacy?
What is the anguish of compromise
On separation of hearts?
What is pacification beneath the waters
Of the dominant seerness of ego?
On the stairs of altering moments
What is deference of the earlier vows?
What the honey
Of being deceitful in truthfulness?
What is an argument what a justification is?
What is the mystery of desire to die down,
In pretext to be in the world?
Why is there a chaos what schematic order is?
Non-existent co-relates
To the encasing arms of existent, then
What is ascending and descending of the sun?
In longings for lamentation of yesterday,
What is the rash impatience
Of drumsticks in each channel
Of blood in delight of the new days?
Am I the ballet of blazing flame
Of belief and disbelief, passing tossing through
Millennium to millennium?
In this mysterious journey of strangeness,
In Relativities and fading away Realities,
Am I a silhouette of the crestfallen generations?
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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