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Returns the Prodigal

(for Amir Khasru Swapan)

Now I see the world faintly glimmering
like a 5-watt bulb the only star in my study;
and darkness as that in the grave
blanketing my body with a shroud: no,
it never comes like water around my legs.

Here comes the prodigal that I am,
with troubles like cracked mirrors glued together
so scary that nobody likes his reflection
to break into pieces, all the pieces
that never make a beautiful whole.

Now being at the end of my thither, I see
the drawing of curtains on every single face.
Here comes the prodigal that I am,
with promises that swell like balloons
just awaiting the touch of needles,

not without letting doubts come up
and forever stay on his friends' minds,
to shrug off the returning of things
like love the butterfly on a teen's finger
and money the convict on the blacklist.

Now as the going gets tough, to unsettle
the way things work, I am afraid
the fascination for evil gets on my nerves.
Here comes the prodigal that I am,
with fears as in Grandma's Satchel;

and I wonder how longer with hesitations
I have lounged in between the rocks,
to see my life's grace dry out in drought.
How can I scrape off the old habit like rust
of spending all my Solomon's wealth?

Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 1083 times
Written on 2006-07-19 at 17:54

Tags Anxiety