The Story Poem by Iftekhar Bukhari

The Story

The headlamps on and
with the tools of excavation
in their hands
they entered the dark cavern
and glanced curiously
at the sketches from some bygone century
carved into the crumbling wall

A cracked skull
along an ancient piece of rock
some firewood, half-burnt
ashes scattered but
the warmth long lost
a broken flute
full of blackened soil
a piece of leather detached
from a whip and
some broken ribs

They sat for a while, pondering
a story could be fabricated
had there been, a heart too
preserved amongst the ribs
that used to beat
in the times long lost

And spontaneously
they burst into a laughter
on this obscure thought of theirs
a laughter, the resonance of which
got transformed into a deep silence
waning slowly

And suddenly, their hearts
started beating aloud
in their own ribcages.

(An poem by Iftekhar bukhari Translation: Kamran Awan)