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Like a ghost note from an old ghazal
that floats in unexpectedly upon the twilight breeze,
an early-morning dream awakens me with
images I thought I had put behind –
images stolen from your mirror
while you remained oblivious –
images belonging to you, me, this, that –
some random days we passed coincidentally –
some butterfly waltzes we almost didn’t see –
some rose-tipped images that would just be –
All days with all their lost images, I think
in my dream, must fade in the fullness of time,
The dreams must themselves grow hazy with
forgetfulness and poor eyesight –
The memories too, we so lovingly caress, must finally
bleed into nothing –
like it never mattered, like we never cared –
The single moment, that solitary evening, was all we had…
It is the way of life – nature’s recipe for continuity –
Atrophy the muscular present to let it pass down the road easy –
Ever seen a tree hold on to its leaves or their shadows,
the rose bush clinging to its prettiest piece?
Do trees have memories?
…
But you can be sure summer will return,
unfailingly,
And the bees looping among the summer flowers will always be –
and the ghazal of your memory will still occasionally echo
through the rooms of my heart,
remind me of its emptiness –
then again, I will remind my heart –
even if the days, their memories, dim and fade,
even if the images I stole from your mirror walk away,
summer,
and lovers’ songs,
will always be…
