Midnight Hour- A Poem By Shujaat Hussain.
Writen under a lantern at midnight,
And sent by me to her house.
It's the eighth midnight
Each minute colder
—Colder than before,
The cool breezes clock the sight
Of the city - however;
Of my house, windows grow thicker
That unables to see more.
The dream knocks overnight
Which sits beside me - whisper:
THERE I hold the mirror
Of the thread our tomes floor,
Weird? The hair of mine turns white
Like the first snow—of late november
The square I dwell in folds under
A somber space, of odor.
It's midnight, the last night
Of the poet, the pallid pages murmer:
Pray! betake my spirit to a river
And take me a gander at the Dal shore;
The midnight-hours hold us tight,
Put on the dress—of a mourner
Or note down the wails of city's mother
Bury me there - don't blore.
Facebook: Shujaat Hussain