5/10/2021
Quivered is the cradle of the mind.
Lullabies of restless thought sung to ears of no closure, my own words have consumed me.
Nursing of kindled doubt and persistent intoxicated thinkings.
Soothed lay the heart unaware of its own works, pacified is the soul that finds tranquility in ignorance.
It is but my awareness that has devoured me and my reflection that has polluted the mirror.
Sincere bewilderment, blind innocence, how I crave its liberty.
An empty mind, emptied of sorrow, for an empty vessel brimming with undesired rumination.
For if you made my cradle a casket, my mind would not subdue.
and if you loaned it my body- you’d still find its hunger unfulfilled.
So I say, press my heart firm and squeeze it to a beat, perhaps you might distill a grain of pure virtue.
Chart every vein and count every drop of blood, for if either had been ink, you’d still lack the resources to write a single tear.
And as my last breaths would pass, my lungs would appoint grief as a surrogate.
Unaffected, the world applauds time as a healer.
For even the grave alike the beating chest wither by age.
But neither escape the torment of thought.
Isa Ul-Hassan
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