The Neglected Object

The dull, dismal murky thoughts,
At one night troubled my peaceful sleep,
And drove me out of the confined house,
I roamed through the silent deserted street,
A few tumbling pedestrians I came across,
Who were merged in the world of their own.

In front of the orchard I halted for a while,
And happened to rivet my gaze at the full moon,
Wrapped in haziness of the hilarious world,
Shining above the dressless, exposed trees,
A long streak of smoke passed unendingly,
Below the rim of its bright roundity,
And went to dissipate beyond the far-off hill,
Sleeping like a huge whale out of the ocean.

When I was engrossed, the shadow resembling,
The grandmother sitting beside the spinning wheel,
Began to converse in a low whispering tone,
“I pass over the earth in the ancient routine,
Bring the glad tidings and the very cool lights,
The messages of peace, love and harmony,
But no more I am discussed among the poets,
They no more poeticise me in similes, metaphors,
I am now a word redundant, no more in vogue,
On seeing me they embrace not one another,
To root out weed of hatred, to sow the seed of love.
The children too do not cry for the moon,
And no more found in the alluring tales of grandmothers,
Have they found the brighter moons to gawk at,
That they have cast me in a state of utter oblivion? ”
Meanwhile I felt a touch of fingers,
Upon my shoulders, and could listen no more,
The complaints of the neglected object.

by Shahida Latif

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