Bruise-Prods Poem by Shumail Hassan

Herein lives a nostalgic,

lost in childhood, irking on his ageing!

The clock ticks,

I feel pain,

hour-glass moils, sand is risky,

clock is time or time clock?

Was skittish still frisky.

Was forgetful now nostalgic,

that's how life treats you,

You been through this?

This journo is alone,

no one accompanies you,

like life after death,

alone, alone!

the silence in nook,

that sombre lamp in other,

and sonorous me,

remain bewildered,

I, listening to this silent clamour,

seeing this dark sun,

remember the school,

those winter days,

with leaves rustling when run by us,

those games,

those oblivious us,

those lucent souls,

they'd never turn up, Alas!

I aspire,

to go back,

to wend back,

the days I enjoyed least, lived most;

Past this moment,

adds to this feel,

I'm grown up now,

But inner me is still child,

lost in childhood,

still looking for those streets,

those books,

poking in ponds,

savoring those dishes,

prying those toys.

Those people, who died;

I miss ‘em all.

I miss that yarn that I spun to reach here!

Why do we fear it still doing it?

Why do we live, if are to die?

Why to smile, if cries are nigh?

Why rejoice, if pain is near?

Why age, if interne halts?

Man is feels or body?

I nudge to inner me, pain resounds!

Herein lives a nostalgic,

lost in childhood, irking on his ageing!