To live may be to see old musicians
stow away a broken string
to later bridge a shorter span,
poor children pack leftovers
of leftovers, lions bury
half-eaten carcasses,
faces fastened to words,
thoughts in a sound,
songs in a breath,
people fall in love,
photos fall out of
a worn out wallet,
crusted noses flare in
immense delight in
being immensely loved,
the obliviousness of
un-self-conscious kindnesses
trailing behind a schoolgirl,
homemade jam and
pickles under bitten nails,
pepper in coffee tins,
life linger in dreams,
and dreams walk the
earth in such possessive
silence as to preserve
every other surge
in jars of permanence.
—
Taimur Khan
Taimur Khan 