Everyone has stories to narrate.
Some elegant, some ugly.
For me, it is a story of war.
Each page laced with keen thorns—
Fate dwindles on the blade of anxiety,
Expectation glides on fluttering wings.
Sometimes, I murmur:
this phase will wither, like leaves do in autumn;
this one will pass, shrinking into memories.
Sometimes, I am a boy with a grim heart, seeking solace in empty grief.
Every vein in my body, a plaintive channel.
I have learnt to breathe without choking on distress.
My mouth, an abode of sorrow.
My eyes, vowels of suffocation.
Abdulrazaq Tasleem Fholarin
