And whenever in resounding corridors of time They will speak of dreams and stars, Of whirling dancing snow flakes Divine butterflies on oozing scars Whenever they will dip their brush Deep into thick colors of life, And splash the gray canvas of memories With dripping hues from tinctures so rife Sometime far, when they again will recall the past Feasting ...

“If dust had an alphabet, I would learn.” — Aga Shahid Ali Erelong, descrying a golden blush When soft orange rays Of an evening sun Melding with gentle twilight blue Bathed the distant creek Into a crimson hue And we gathered the smearing sun As one In our solemn eyes Yet today, in a scornful guise Akin to a weary ...

Through how many such ray less nights While scratching corroded wounds Have I been writing to You In obscure, blurry ink By the shade of an onerous yellow moon That hangs by my window Like an antique vapory lamp While air crinkles into paper And oceans cleave Transpiring One colossal roll of undeciphered whispers Then, axe these epochs, O Companion ...