by: Babar Malik
Murmurs from the past warn those who live in dread to seize the day….
Ghosts of a certain past
Knock on my door in earnest
And ask me to assume the clerical ways
Of life uncertain in the bosom of my mother
‘Fear not the impending doom,’ they say
For creation is not yours to claim
The right to abode you need not my friend
For you wither like autumn’s pain
Grab the hunter’s axe to slay tomorrow
Today is a time for joy to stay
For there shall be as always present
Past and future glorified in crimson plains
Consume not yourself by fevered passion
Crumble not in dreams of gathered prays
For once the hatchway is locked
You may never find your way
‘Inject not in me anymore,’ I say
Impulsive order of creed not broken
Through centuries of toil in random procession
Of judgements to our pending despair
And ‘tis I swear
And ‘tis I swear
And ‘tis I swear
And ‘tis I swear
On my last visit to this world
I shall once again rot till I am dead
And death will bring life again
Till the wind settles down upon my grave
