My Love Is Like The Fragrant Myrrh

My love appeared to me in the hour
before sunset,
in the dusky hour heavy with the
weight of unspilled secrets. Tell me,
my love,
where do you gaily frolic in the hours
you are apart from me? ‘I toil ‘neath
the scorching sun,
weaving love’s incessant yearning like
the beams of bridges to find my way
to you.’
My heart is made of sandalwood, I trail
myrrh and fragrant spices
with abandon.

You are a city I cannot breach

You are a city built of shadowed corners
and mysterious alleys
I long to explore them with my fingers and my tongue
Trace the fine veins in your marble walls and wrap myself in your tapestries
I look at you and I see a dark and sweltering night
pregnant with heat and a full moon
and all the little things I want to reveal
in hushed whispers and languid caresses
But you keep your secrets close
and your walls maintained
with the sharp arrows of your archers
that are careless sometimes
with where they choose their target
And I wonder
if you are even aware

Inheritance — Qudsia Akhtar

Inheritance My cupped hands carry ancient lines of dark rooms dense with hookah, chai, and mad men who bang on the daff and chant ‘Oraat mard kor dosak mei lakae jai gee’. * My cupped hands are fed, wed to speculative phrases, bound in his interpretations, fluent with accusations. I am made of his rib yet I deserve his spit. Ancient lines of moonlit […]

via Inheritance — Qudsia Akhtar

Such a hauntingly beautiful poem, words cannot do it justice. Thank you for gifting us with it Qudsia.