Afnan Durrani

Afnan Durrani

The author is currently doing his A-Levels from Cedar College. His interests include poetry, economics, basketball and alot of Indie music.

November 26, 2017
TOPICS

The scent of a sinner

The fresh roses turn pinker, dwelling outside the garden of the lilies, The wrinkled skirts smelling of cheap perfume, stinking of midnight sillies, The footsteps in the empty corridors, the heel to their Achilles, The birthmark on the neck, the missing toothbrush in the can, The dust under the shoes, the unannounced dinner plans, The misplaced phone calls, the green pills on the nightstand, The children in the fields, playing until its dark, Watching them live in singularity, searching for answers like the lark, Faking a smile, the burnt cigarette leaving its mark, Wandering in the withered winds, writing a memoir, Tearing the sinned papers, watching the two from ...

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O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more

O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more. The men with daggers for hearts walk the blood-soaked streets free and alive, With eyes colder than the Kashmir winds and veins warmer than Thar, they thrive, And all your children can do is close their eyes as the blood seeps into the roots, and from society, they drive. The women afraid of walking into the vegetable store, of all ages, Succumbing to the prying eyes, the filth that lay within the savages, They yell and scream, yell and scream, into the newspaper pages, And all your children can do is turn it over as a mere casualty in the inevitable collateral damages, O’ ...

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One day, you’ll know

The black wheelchair rolls on the newly swept marble floor, clean as a mirror, reflecting all the dreams that died away, He sits by the caged window, watching the shadows lengthen as his children grow, A fragile grey hand moves with the wind, uncontrollable, making the sacred last letter impossible, He watches the dust settle on the cold bed, the grey waves of light enter from the window, a burden, making him regret his existence.  The seed of love, planted with the youth of his hands into the ground of birth, now matured; a shadow, an image, invisible, Blue and cuffed, the eyes, a war zone, soldiers battling against the inevitable ...

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A lament for Mashal Khan

The trees begin to cry and plead, The vultures touch the inevitable deed, Blood in the bare naked streets, A bullet with the heart meets. The barren walls drown in blood, The teardrops gushing like a flood, The soul still void of all disease, The eyes begin to cry, “Please”. The sticks now mere knives cutting the morning bud, The head, with all its power, begins to climb but is stopped with a single thud, The skull, born from dust, caved in back, The skin trampled, the wounds in life lack. As the wolves begin to deflower the body, Of all dignity, His name surrounds the valley air from the dust to ...

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Crooked fingers and final chords

Crooked fingers steadily vibrating on the guitar, Heavy eyelids blur out the crowd, The body trembles as the last chord is recited, The floodlights blind out the distance, until all he can see is just an echo of himself.  His lip buds expose his subtle prophecy, His eyes deeper than the sea that has absorbed all pain, His nose glitters with the little line of cocaine still up that unholy hole, The ocean, at the end of the road, vivid in all its majesty. The eyelids much heavier now, impossible to fight Make it all the more painful to keep playing, even when his body compels him to, The ...

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Epitaph

Memories are sprung up again, like something thick emerging through the air, All the times our bicycles with broken rings crackled on through the friscalating sunset, in infinite happiness, All the times our worn out, unpolished shoes kept us out of the classroom talking for hours, All the times the eraser at the end of the scale lobbed into the free wind, showing who was more powerful,  All the times our collars were held in a grasping fist by our very own, All the times report cards were burnt to a crisp, in rebellion again all the mental oppression, All the times we came to ...

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The evening train

The evening train, breathless, reaches its destination, The station, bleak and empty, resembles the soul of a dead poet, He drinks the unimaginative cup of tea until all that’s left is the glass, humiliating him with his own reflection, The road ahead is fearful, yet hopeful. The passengers, sound asleep, still glow under the fluorescent lights above them, The towns outside, pass by his eyes in a brief second, reminiscent of his entire existence succumbing to a single moment of clarity, His thoughts still clinging to the ultimate battle of life and death, and during all this torture, all he can think about is, The aisle that still illuminates. The sun ...

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The Infinite Miners

The wind is uncomfortable, almost biting, The souls, in all their agony, begin reciting, The unfinished walls, dripping with red paint, blood, The fences scream, but just like their lives, are stopped with a single brazen thud. The hands, gravelling aggressively, soon succumb to the sweat, The lips dry, swollen, and pink, are blessed with the smoke from the infinite cigarette, The ground beneath, shakes and trembles, just as their fragile grey bodies, Their shirts, dripping of the stench of a thousand dead rats, that they would, in all their magnificence, rather be. Their ghosts circle the hole in the ground, contemplating, Their chests, bare naked, just as the day they were ...

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Unfinished memories

The candles in the room remain un-blown, The crevices on the bed still untouched, By the morning due, unknown, The fists still in pain, unclutched. The walls of the baby’s room still unfinished, The toys still placed on the corner, diminished, Papers on the table top still wet with tears, The wind still screams in all its fears. The air in the atmosphere seems uncomfortable, grasping, With all its might to make some sense of the situation that might just not be, What could have been, still shadows over the eternal debate between reality and death. The paint in the room still, unfinished, reminds them of all they gave up, All they sacrificed for the loved one ...

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Treachery

As the sky rolls over, My mind begins to hover, To be, Or not to be. Eternity seems not too distant, Life seems not too consistent, The ocean wreaks havoc in its tides, The rain kills off all who hides, Death takes me with its gleaming hand, “Let’s go, Son, it’s not for you, this land,” Fog starts to roll in, My heart starts to fade in. I feel nature’s looming presence around me, The pills, the knife or the sea? I slowly thrust the knife into my stomach, My pain starts to slowly fade in to the distance. My head starts to tremendously ache, I remember all the times I could have shown some resistance, All the ...

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