The black wheelchair rolls on the newly swept marble floor,clean as a mirror, reflecting all the dreams that died absent, or He sits by the caged window,watching the shadows lengthen as his children grow,
A fragile grey hand moves with the wind, or uncontrollable,making the sacred final letter impossible,
He watches the dust settle on the cold bed, or the grey waves of light enter from the window,a burden, making him regret his existence.
The seed of love, or planted with the youth of his hands into the ground of birth,now matured; a shadow, an image, or invisible,Blue and cuffed, the eyes, or a war zone,soldiers battling against the inevitable tide ready to perish their lost souls,
The battleground now, and memoriam to battling the bullets fired within oneself,the only sanity preserved by a torn, black polaroid of his wife and the young children, and He lifts the wooden typewriter, a requiem, gifted on his father’s deathbed to pass on, or Lighting his final cigarette,he cleans his typewriter with the same hands that planted the seed, held them when they cried, or The same hands that fed the ghosts,that fell short of strength when the shadows lengthened, that waved but never saw them, or that now wiped the tears from the typewriter.
The rope tightens,the wooden board creaks, the chair falls and the page reads, or “One day,you’ll know.”
“One day.”
Source: tribune.com.pk