I am
The rain Of Iris Grey. My life's lash long My grave- lid quay. I'm pain unslain and pain I give For pain in pain with pain I live I'm sorrow deep and deeper wrong I deepest seep in depths o' song But o as hueless hearts unwrung But o as hope from hope unstrung But o as fuel on flame unflung I live and lie and loathe unsung Unsaid, unshed, undead dismay I am The rain Of Iris Grey. - Alina Nawab Kidwai
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Why is life such an anger ebbing on the go?
And hope such a breaker fainting in the flow? Youth- intoxication And expression, tribulation And suppression, dereliction Of thought, of thought? Cynicism is tiresome. (But addiction is addiction!) Sometimes there is just nothing to say. Your words lie in a tremulous state of satisfaction with their unexpressedness. And after a long, long time, If you still have nothing to say, You feel as if there never was anything to say at all. That all that has been said has been useless, futile. That all that can be said is needless, futile. That all that must be said is so inexpressive that it better be not said at all. That perpetual silence is all that can save you from the shame of shallow expression. One can relish in the lightheartedness of emptiness, for in it there is nothing to regret. No words born, so none unsaid. So no regret. But expression in its shallowest form is the deepest place to drown in shame. So beware of hopelessness! You could mistake a lake for a plash and....... die philosopho-mathematically thinking that the shallowness of the world killed you when you actually simply drowned where you could swim. |
AuthorAlina N. Kidwai Archives
October 2015
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