Inspiration

By Shayaan Khusro 

Spent hours sitting at the desk with my diary,  

Yet its pages remain as blank as the day I bought it. 

Went to the balcony out of boredom 

But between the shifting blues of the skies 

And the streets going from lively to quiet,  

I suddenly had a lot to write about. 

Published in Unwind Volume 5 by The Quill House. Available on https://amzn.eu/d/1LDTYUp

Your Shoes

By Shayaan Khusro

 

I’m tired of putting myself in your shoes.

They don’t fit, have plenty of holes

And cause blisters that hurt so much

That I no longer enjoy walking through the park

I once spent hours wandering through.

 

But what hurts more than the blisters

Is your unwillingness to put yourself in my shoes,

As if yours were the only pair that mattered.

So why shouldn’t I step out of your shoes

Put mine back on and be on my way?

 

AN: Published in Waves Of Resonance: Volume 3 anthology. Available on Google Play Books and Amazon.

When We Fall

By Shayaan Khusro

 

If our civilization was to fall

And a new one was to rise,

I wonder how they’d remember us?

What would they think of us?

 

Would they remember great minds,

Who built towers that touch skies?

Or would they remember fools

Who doomed themselves in every way?

Would they sing our songs with fondness?

Or would they scoff at the memes we made?

Would they even remember us?

Would they even find what’s left of us?

Would there even be anything left of us?

Would there even be someone left to remember us?

Or is this it?

Grudge-Bound

By Shayaan Khusro 

 

Those who stood still when the oppressors came for me, 

Do not dare to mourn. 

Else if I rise from whatever gutter I lay in 

I’ll go for you before I go for them, 

For the oppressors did as they promised, 

But you who were 

My friends, neighbours, relatives and countrymen, 

You who claimed to be just and good, 

Did nothing, said nothing and thought nothing, 

When they came for me with swords and torches. 

You looked away and pretended all was right 

As an innocent family was snuffed in screams. 

So do not tempt my grudge-bound spirit 

With empty platitudes, 

For it has yet to decide whom to torment first 

And it might decide to haunt you. 

Not Man Enough To Let You Die Along

By Shayaan Khusro

 

Please don’t look at me with shock and sorrow

As I leave you behind.

It’s not that I don’t love you,

There’s no one I love more,

Or that I don’t believe in you,

I know how strong and brave you are.

 

It’s just that

If you die, who’ll remember me when I’m gone?

If you die, who’ll testify that once upon a time I lived?

If you die, who’ll tell the world my story?

That I was neither a monster nor a god.

That I was just a man,

Trying to do what was right,

Trying to protect those he loved.

If you die, who will tell those who wait for me

That I’m not returning

And that I want them to move on?

 

I know we promised

To live together

And die together.

But I’m sorry that I’m just

Not man enough to let you die along.

The City of Jewels

By Shayaan Khusro

 

In the heart of the Subcontinent

Rests the City of Jewels

That can only be seen at a night

That hides the moon from sight.

 

It was built by the djinns using

Diamonds, rubies and more gems

To protect their homes from

The pitch-black pools of evil

That await the chance

To swallow the city whole.

The city’s roads are molten gold

That burns through the pits of despair.

They reflect the fiery ones as they travel

To their homes, markets and workplaces.

 

When the sun rises

Its light blankets the city

And banishes the darkness.

The jewels refract the sunlight

Splitting it into a myriad of colours

That engulfs the city in a mirage

From all ten directions.

The moonlight powers the spell at night.

 

If a traveller were to arrive here

At a time other than a moonless night,

They would find nothing but concrete ruins,

Cold, silent and eerie,

As if djinns are not celebrating life

Right in front of them.

 

If they dare step in,

They will fall asleep at one gate

And wake up at the opposite one,

Unaware of what transpired.

Those who enter on a moonless night,

Never return because they are spellbound.

 

If you wish to catch a glimpse

But don’t want to be enchanted,

Then you must fly above it

On a night bereft of the moon.

An Unfinished Business

By Shayaan Khusro

 

You started crafting me with a few taps on your keypad.

You cracked your fingers after a few verses

And went to sleep when words stopped flowing.

I would have been content had you given up then

And sent me to the Recycling Bin.

 

But no, you promised to complete me

Down to the very last character.

Yet here I am,

A mere .doc file in your smartphone

With pretty words typed in it

Waiting for a few more verses to complete me,

Unsure, whether you even think of me

Or are my stanzas fated to remain buried in your mind,

Never to be read, praised or criticized.

 

But I warn you, do not keep me waiting any longer

As you have kept the unfinished poems in your diary

For they can give you papercuts

Only if you bother touching them

But I can and will bring your phone down with me

When my impatience and the things you download

Eventually corrupt me.

 

So, either open my file and finish what you started

Or come up with some new rhymes

To write a lamentation for your phone

That you will probably leave incomplete anyway.

How To Kill A Flower

By Shayaan Khusro

In a garden lush and colourful, 

Grows a flower dull and unloved. 

No plants grow close to it 

And bees, butterflies and ladybugs, 

All keep some distance from it, 

As if its dullness is infectious, 

More so than its depressing blight. 

If it could cry, it would. 

Feeling the dull flower’s misery, 

The gardener decides to release it  

But is unsure of how to do it. 

He first thinks of crushing it 

But mangled flowers seem unsightly, 

Then he thinks of slashing its stem, 

It would be mostly intact 

But withering away so slowly 

Would surely be painful, on that note, 

Starving it of water and sunlight 

Would take even longer, hurt more, 

And is thus out of question. 

And so would drowning its roots 

For death by suffocation isn’t appealing. 

Perhaps an overdose of fertilizers 

Would be quick, silent and painless 

Or perhaps not, he wouldn’t know; 

His wife didn’t tell him  

Before taking her sleeping pills. 

After pondering for a long time 

The gardener gives a tired sigh 

Realizing that after a lifetime filled with pain,  

A few more moments of it will not matter. 

So, he gives up on seeking a painless death 

And gets some gasoline and matches. 

A Celestial Love Tangle

By Shayaan Khusro

 

It’s ironic that humans look to the sky for matchmaking

When space is filled with miserable lovers.

If you don’t believe me,

Just grab a telescope

And see for yourself.

 

Moon loves Earth

Because to him she is all the life that is

In a universe that seems as dry and dead as him.

Earth loves Sun

Because in a sky full of stars

He is all the warmth there is to her.

Sun is the saddest,

For he is just a speck in a cluster of lovers more brilliant,

Who all love Sagittarius A*,

A cruel black hole who only takes and never gives,

Yet Sun cannot leave her for she is all that holds him.

Despite her cruelty, the black hole is pitiable too,

For her lover and love story may or may not be real.

And as if space wasn’t miserable enough,

With celestial bodies trapped in an orbit

Around ones that revolve around others,

Any love story that could happen here is doomed

Because everyone is drifting apart faster than light.

 

But despair not,

For in a sky full of miserable lovers,

There are a few happy couples that return each other’s gravity

And revolve around each other for life.

A Murder Most Foul

By Shayaan Khusro

 

Under a bridge near the metro

Flows a drain, black and wide,

Filled with filth that man made

With their hands and otherwise.

Carcasses float upon its surface

As uncovered as the drain itself,

Drawing bugs, crows and hawks

In air, pigs and rats on the ground.

Everyone who passes by wonders

‘Why couldn’t it be a river instead?’

 

Yet the December mornings burn

The sky and the water grey

And subdue the drain’s stench

Turning it as clear as a mirror,

Reminding us that a long time ago,

It was a river, beautiful and alive,

Till in arrogance and ignorance

We choked its blood vessels,

Gouged its organs for supper

And defecated upon its corpse.