Consider the shimmer under mango trees,
the crow on the roof, and the way
wind ruffles its feathers and makes
it gargle a fainter caw that blows
round the seasons. Consider yourself

and how it came to be the grayish
Sunday afternoon with its drizzling promises
and unfinished work – the life that is spent
as we squint to see and fling ourselves
at the future – at nothingness. Consider

the golden boughs and sapphire mines
in your casket of gem and sand,
the sandstone sculptures, the vultures
picking our meadows clean. Consider

the beads sliding down on cold windows
and tenderness floating in a quiet room:
that certain tilt of the head, the turn of mind –
the lovely face that does not let me sleep.

Taimur Khan


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