Paper Flower

A summer night’s dream Dreamt in many languages Carving the same name On whitewashed walls Squinting against the 3:30 pm sun Swaying in the reluctant breeze Always in the same colour Even when stripped of all colour I only see you in the peculiar pink of the bougainvillea of my dreams

Before the New Sun Rises

Am I doing the cliché, looking at a poem, and thinking of you? Did I make you smile, bitterly, Looking at this poem, and thinking of me? There are two magical words in the language of poets: Qurbat, is one. You’d know, I’m near. I had to leave, The part of me behind, The one…