Drape me in the purdahs of your being
as I cave into hundred thousand deaths
per night; relentlessly I lodge my spirit
in the empty taverns of your existence
wishing to grow a flower, not very red
like shimmering rubies found in Mahals
of kings richly adorned of any despair,
but a plant common that you colour,
I hope, with the red of your blood warm.
Like a nomad groping towards an oasis,
I had disciplined myself to survive you
through these very nights, manifesting
sanity to stubborn senility; from lover
to patient, to broken as is what became
of a once curated heart.
Umm-e-Aiman currently lives in Pakistan after having moved from the United Arab Emirates and believes the transition has been an influence behind most of her works. She spends her idle time musing and oscillating to ink. She writes and publishes under the pseudonym Sheikha A.
Latest posts by Sheikha A. (see all)
- Waiting … Story Poem by Sheikha A. - July 6, 2014
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- Vigilia – by Sheika A. - July 6, 2014