Author: Saadut
•5:34 PM




He looked out of the window pane and muttered ‘is it going to pass like this?’
I knew he was pointing to the dry cold wind that rose from the southern mountains, a blank brooding sky devoid of clouds for ages now, endlessly in wait of a downpour within. The fading earth had been parched by our indifference, sullen by red blood marks at every place. For so many seasons we had seen some solitary clouds pass by the horizons, looking down upon us, but we had let them go. Opportunities wasted, left our spirits dampened and the soul soil in cracks.
“It is autumn” I told him, pointing to the rusted leaves which wilted unwillingly like necks forced at the sacrificial altar, like nameless identities that lay scattered indifferently by gusts from farther lands, like cadavers in mass graves somewhere up north, up where bare rocks and mounds of earth became nameless epitaphs.

“But winter is close” he replied looking up to the blank skies, where neither the sun nor any clouds reigned, in vast emptiness of the reigning infinite.
“Autumn has songs, of falling leaves, of whispering showers, of giving away trees, of scattered promises” I told him, “These songs have broken strings, lost in self destruction, lost in obliqueness” he replied.

“But they are melodies, these autumn songs. Aren’t they?” I tried to counter.
“These melodies will soon be lost to winter, in despair and without notes. Can you not hear the sighs in these songs?” he said. I would be lying if I refused to be hearing the forceful sighs in them!

“But winter is followed by spring” I tried to reassure; knowing within that winter was going to be harsh, long and drawn.
“Will we muster courage to harness the clouds this spring, before another summer burns us, before another autumn falls to wither and decay?” he asked.
I had no answer, knowing that we had lost countless springs to our inertia and apathy.

We now both stared at the blank sky that had countless blood red marks on the horizon but not a single cloud that could quench this parched earth. The same blood red marks on the horizon lit up as stars in dark nights, smiling in own illumination but mocking at our self imposed darkness. Faraway reams of barbed wire encircled us; up close loops of consortia were being laid in unending barricades. Our harvests had been trampled and burnt by the trespasser, scorched by our own for long.

“For how long?” I asked myself “For how long?”

Soon it would be time to light the winter fires, which refused to warm us, having lost their flames to our own frigidity. A long drawn winter was haunting.




15th Nov 2012
17:32 PM