On the Demise of a Pen

On the Demise of a Pen

Ahsan Habib

4th May, 2013

A silent ember that cooks up stories

Shouting the triumph of Truths

In a world inundated by deep darkness—

A plough furrowing the ground of thoughts

Soothes the souls once fraught with fright—

But now they can cull pearls from the oysters,

Revel in the ripples of sand,

And drink the breezes that gently blow.

A fair witness to all seasons of man,

The pen paints one trapped within the walls,

Through the window that sees

Two birds are locked in a passionate embrace,

And pulls towards his chest the forlorn pillow—

Or paints a pair of souls

That relish the melodious flow,

Sitting on the bank with arms ready to caress.

At some point the course of the pen comes to a halt,

Thus an ancient friend dies—remains just the ink.