Jasmine

The painter sleeps in a room without colors today
And the writer looks outside the window–just like every other day
What is it that makes the world go by in such a twisted way
The red room smells like jasmine–because she picked some today
She saw a fleeting ship–as she stood by the quay
The clouds and the commotion fill up the air–intertwined in a dismal play
It is harrowing because the people all seem to have gone astray
Their faces have a numbness–their dead arms swing and their legs sway
Even today, the caged bird has forgotten to fly away
We all sat and wondered about the doomsday
How our shells will become numb once more and our faces will turn to clay
Yet the painter sleeps and dreams about the blurry bay
And the writer looks up at the sky and questions it–just like every other day

Adha Afsana

On the Silk Canvas–were stories painted in gold
Of purple clouds and pink dots in the sky
And cherry colored fountains where people came to–
Throw the yellow coins, and make wishes about forlorn times
And the Painter would stand by the window and glance
Over the shifting blue rocks–from beneath the arid ground
While the silver bird–would often swing by
And stare at its shadow–which looked like that of a broken man
And now and then a hundred unknown faces
Would stare inside the glass door, and find a pungent silence
Hovering over their heads
On the Silk Canvas–were stories rotting away
Of orange doves hanging by strands of black threads
And orchids of grey fatigue tied with white ribbons of defeat-
They arrive at the doorsteps of a brown house made of clay sheets
And the Painter would stand by the glass door and glance
And shut himself away, recoiling once again like a frigid tapestry