Conquer

i know places you reminisce

your melancholy in, and no wonder

you never evolved.

the park bench you

burn frigid nights on,

dew upon your eyes and

menthol cigarette to your

lips, with your ashen spirit

winding skywards in smoke,

is where the aging gathers

every morning to whine about

their arthritic knees, or quietly

count upon their rosary.

the coffee shop you

invariably frequent,

taking to the farthest corner

that looks out to a bustling

road, the chair’s foam there

irreversibly sunk, and tabletop

warm with sun-tamed shadows of

vehicles crawling down its limbs; it’s

where the high school doers escape

with their infatuations: hold hands under

the table, and clandestinely pass

phone numbers on folded napkins.

grow up, boy!

for a change, wander the

old city fortress on a bright sunny day.

wait under high echoing domes and

watch the bats sleep-swing

from invisible alcoves, the air

redolent with bat shit. wrap

your palms on the heavy bars

of airless captive chambers,

and peek into the dark: you’d

see emptiness repenting the

death of inmates died hundreds

of years ago. war slaves Aurangzeb

had pronounced banishment from life on,

in cells of his fort - with ankle locks, torture

and starvation. walk out into the porch and

watch the garden ablaze in bougainvillea,

the walkways green with sheets of moss,

and the sound of water trundling to roots

along channels dug centuries ago.

reach out, drag your fingers on laterite walls

and feel the hot prick of friction ushered by them

from countless craters and broken edges

gaping at you. know that they are wounds

caused by mortar shell, enemy bullets and

earthquakes that couldn't manage more than

a crack. spend a day in the dust of history.

roam the citadel's darkest of alleys,

and read its brave stories of sustenance.

or maybe you should just be there.

just be there with those walls that

defied bombs and calamities; the spring

that never left the garden; the rains

that still pour in its honour; the prisons still

bearing the haunting cries of men who'd

kneeled on its cold floors and begged for death,

and the sun continuing to rise over corpses

of derelict times, shining like a jewel atop its minarets.

it’s amid blood, battles, banishment,

and the ultimate triumph of braving it all,

that you'd know why they’re called monuments.

now go back to reminiscing if you will,

to whimpering of your betrayed heart.

would you still say love damaged you

beyond repair?

.

.

- Sobhan