There’s something wonderfully sad about a winter’s sunset.
It deadens the pain, the melancholy of regret.
A fleeting moment of calm surrender.
And ephemeral beauty.
Captured in an instant.
Forever preserved.
In the vast darkness of my heart.
A tiny light deserved
When your hand is in my hands,
when my words are in your words,
we could get lost just walking like that.
When your breath is in my breath,
and solitude is close to us,
I put my head on your shoulder and fall asleep.
I wake up in your love,
and win by losing to you.
When you get upset, I sing to conciliate you.
My breath is complete with you,
without you there is no fulfillment.
You are my love, with you the season turns to spring.
When you are here I am at peace,
and when you are not, I despair.
My love, just tell me what more to say to you, what do you want to hear?
Everything could keep going on like this,
we keep meeting this way,
but this will only happen when you’re here.
When you’re here.
(Original in urdu by Ali Zafar from his Album Masti)
I remember a time still.
When pain was yet unknown.
There was hope for love.
And nothing could go wrong.
But that was before
I knew I would neither be lucky nor strong.
I remember the moments now past.
When hope was closer than despair still.
A friend could be called to talk about anything and everything.
Or for no reason whatsoever.
Life was good even when it made me weep.
All those small happy moments were mine to keep.
I remember before. Way before. In the past.
When the world lay at my feet still.
Hard work and dedication would always count.
At home or in the office, rewarded in generous amount.
Sky was the only limit, and just like a magic spell.
Everything always turned out well.
I remember the days of the past.
When life was full of promises still.
Simple pleasures brightened the days.
Chocolates and pure butter milk cookies with glaze.
Long breakfasts and homemade food.
Lazy evenings with friends brightened the mood.
I remember the times of the past.
When the promise of love was certain still.
Not knowing when it would be met, and where.
Made life uncertain though easy to bear.
Nights were filled with sleep.
And dreams so vivid I always wanted to keep.
Coming back from the ceremony, she feels tired. It is late and she has to get up early. Still, she does not feel like going to bed, on this, her last evening as a girl. Her younger cousins take turn to decorate her with Henna, they too tired from the evenings festivities.
As she closes her eyes a couple of hours before dawn, tucked in her bed, she holds her hand outside the covers for the henna to dry in the warm glow of the natural gas heater beside her bed. She quickly falls deeply asleep. And dreams. Her last dream as a girl. And as dawn breaks, the henna on her hands half dry and starting to crumble and flake off, her dream fades away.
Sorry. Deeply and profoundly sorry.
For the times I say it, but not strongly enough. For the times I should say it, and I don’t. And especially for the times I do not even realize I should have said it.
Sorry. For all those times and many more.
I am going to dream about a shooting star.
A shooting star that is always so bright. A shooting star that is so far, yet so very and dearly close that I can even see its light shining down on me, and feel its warmth in my heart.
This shooting star is always there even when I cannot see it. Brings me happiness when it appears, even for a tiny moment, and leaves me with the wish of seeing it again.
I am going to dream about that shooting star, that comes from places I do not know, places to which I do not belong, and sometimes I am fearful to explore, and it follows an undefined destination out there in the sky, to which only the stars belong.
That shooting star brightens the darkest nights, the toughest days, even the regular days. MY shooting star that only I see, only I feel, but I can never have.
Sometimes I do not see it, and I wonder where it is hiding. And then, it is just there right in front of me, so close, but yet again so far, so unreachable.
One day I dreamed I actually had it, it was so real that I naively believed it. And then I was told by my star, loud and clear, that it was all just an illusion, and right then, with much pain, I realized the truth: There are no bridges from here to the stars.
[silent reader]
She has celebrated numerous henna ceremonies before, but her own ceremony is nothing like she has imagined. It seems that chaos is everywhere. And although the whole world seems to be happy, she knows many to be superficial smiles. Worn only for the evening as a gesture of good will. As she sits with her husband-to-be, and receives countless best wishes together with large amounts of oil applied to her hair, she thinks back on her life. And one by one her dreams pass by in her mind.
Finally, the long-awaited time arrived. She had been dreaming about this moment since she was young, imagining how it would be, when it would happen and where. For the bride, who is soon to depart from her childhood home, the day of the Henna ritual is long and exhausting, but a day where she is closer to her family than she has ever been before. Like waves bringing an untied boat close to shore before carrying it far out to sea.