By Shayaan Khusro
He lived in the easternmost land
Where the sun rises first
And everything was west of them
And nothing on the east.
She lived in the westernmost land
Where the sun sets last
And everything was east of them
And nothing on the west.
Most would say that they weren’t meant to meet
Let alone fall in love. After all,
They had no means of making a journey
Across a distance that only birds would dare travel.
Even their cultures were so far apart
That their scripts moved in opposite directions.
But the universe wanted them to meet so bad
That it conspired with the world
And convinced it to turn itself round
So that the distance between them would shorten
To a mere line that divides day and night,
Waiting for one or both to set sail beyond it.
The Jotting Pen 