Poetry

Desolate is My Garden why?

Desolate
Is my garden, why?
Silent
Is the Cuckoo, why?
Wailing
Is the sky, why?
Quaking
Is an earth, why?
Heavy
Is my heart, why?
Aghast
Is my soul, why?
Shrill
Is my voice, why?
Dry
Are my lips, why?
Mournful
Are my eyes, why?
Timid
Are my thoughts, why?

Unceasingly
I enquire it to myself, why?

No idea
Respond I ever get, why?

Rely on
A meeking voice then murmered.

Desolate is due falling of flowers
Silence is of dead petals
Wails are of loud bursts
Quakes are of unendurable jerks
Heaviness for an eternal loss
Aghast over grief
Shrill in an anger
Dry with an inconsolable pain
Mournful as envisioning the whole scene
Timid as of the heartbreaking tragedies.

Agreed
I nodded, strange
A fake grin
My furrowed cheeks
Decorated
Surprisingly to escape
To surpass
And leave everything
Concealed.

                                                              ~ Imtiyaz Pandow

                                                     Budgam, J&K, India

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