She Writes Verses of Poetry

She writes verses of poetry in her mind as she looks at the pale moon and the North Star from a two story house – a house built on the side of the street of a village that has endured bombshells and rifles and men with rough shoes and a handful of foreign languages.

She writes verses of poetry in her mind about what’s going on in the minds of the people sitting in the gardens and lit houses around her: What hardships have they endured in their lives? How many times have they fallen in love? What goes on in their minds as they lay their heads every night on their pillow? What has made them who they currently are?

She is fascinated by people’s history.

She writes verses of poetry in her mind as the prayers of a distant priest fill the village for the fifth time that day, and raise to the sky in an attempt to please a listener in the heavens that may or may not be listening – that may be a figment of imagination that has been passed on from a history to another, and has been woven so deeply into the histories of so many that it has become an “unquestionable” reality.

She writes verses of poetry in her mind about this reality, as she realizes the role she can and has to play in carving out an exact piece of the future she wants to hold in her wrinkled hands 50 – 60 years from now.

She trudges down the steps to the first floor and lights red candles she usually leaves for special events then decorates the halls with them. She sits facing a 32 inch TV.

She turns it on: Skies black from fire smoke. Villages rioting. People out of their minds. Minds out of their people. Burnt gardens. A repeated history.Chaos. A young girl with curly brown hair and sun-kissed skin lying dead in a pool of crimson red blood. A young boy placing next to her a white flower black from the grease in his hands, and a lit red candle.

She turns it off – smashes the screen with the vase of white flowers she had placed at the table, next to the red candle she just lit.

And then, she goes back to writing verses of poetry in her mind, running far away from a bitter- sweet reality and a constantly repeating history. But at the back of her mind, behind where the verses of poetry form, the image of curls and tan and the history that that girl could have made continuously resurface.

At some point, she knows she will write verses about her too.


Winter Deaths


A process where a living person- breathing, moving, blinking etc – becomes still in fractions of seconds. The heart stops. The pulse dies. Slowly, colors leave the body. They dance back into the air, absorbed by the sun, swept by the wind. Tombs are made to collect as much of the colors as possible. Those which escape become rainbows that bring joy to the living, who look in awe at light reflections they will someday be a part of . We’ll all dissolve at some point and with us we’ll take others’ colors. Life is all connected in an intricate web.

When the cold steals the heat off my fingers to warm itself up,I remember your solid, blue fingers folded on your stomach as you lay in that coffin. I’ve never shivered from the cold. It was always remembering your scene that sent chills to my heart. I hate winter for that very reason : that it reminds me of your blankets and boiling coffee and lost, blurry yesterdays that I can’t seem to put my hands on anymore. I forgot the sound of your voice – all the screaming that happened wiped it off my memory. But I do remember the story you’ve told me about that time you almost died while climbing that hill to work. Or the one about how she used to write you poetry on her father’s newspapers, and secretly give them to the mailman to send them to you. It’s a shame that she was killed after being caught giving the mailman those letters on a stormy January afternoon. They thought she was having an affair with him.

And I remember the poem you told me you wrote her. You’ve always recited it by heart. I wish she had had the chance to hear it.

There are no real words to describe death – be it death of people, events or experiences. Someone, or something, just disappears. All what’s left are videos constantly pressed on play-back.