Dear friend,
November is cool at the finger tips; the wind is as surprised as I am when it leaves the beginning of winter on our tea coloured skins. Rosa Rabinowicz chose six words to scream when the Nazis hung a noose over her neck and disfigured face. "Tell everyone what happened here! Tell everyone what happened here!" So I wonder who is going to write about this after-dark November sky, our befuddling, bewildering cities, and the quietude of the beginning of summer settling within our homes. Today it might just be me. Tell everyone what happened here.
I walked right through the yellow shadow of a streelight, and for a moment I might have been that night light stranger to someone else. The universe's spotlight turns on us, the evening is spilled onto the streets, and we are the eyes and we are the ears and we are the hands assigned to this part of the world. And it makes us think about our hearts and how men and women, even the skins bagged with wrinkles, are home to somebody and somebody thinks of love in them. Maybe it is love that spurs heroes out of men.
I spilled the memory of you all over my city so it glistened a bit more. I looked right into the streaming headlights on an adjacent street so it looked like the entire light of the universe was heading towards us. And I found you spilled over the shadows of streelights, over the evening sky, over the moon-earring of a Karachi sunset and over the star that the barely-moon was chasing. I found you spilled in the shadow of a stalled rickshaw, the eyes of a stranger that met mine momentarily, and the guise of contemplation that the city takes on when it comes to rest.
And while we turn into the caretakers of our own histories, we will be as we have always been. And in letters and in love and in memory and in days, and in words and in our youth, we will be the proof that the world might need that we were here and we were alive.
Love,
A friend.
November is cool at the finger tips; the wind is as surprised as I am when it leaves the beginning of winter on our tea coloured skins. Rosa Rabinowicz chose six words to scream when the Nazis hung a noose over her neck and disfigured face. "Tell everyone what happened here! Tell everyone what happened here!" So I wonder who is going to write about this after-dark November sky, our befuddling, bewildering cities, and the quietude of the beginning of summer settling within our homes. Today it might just be me. Tell everyone what happened here.
I walked right through the yellow shadow of a streelight, and for a moment I might have been that night light stranger to someone else. The universe's spotlight turns on us, the evening is spilled onto the streets, and we are the eyes and we are the ears and we are the hands assigned to this part of the world. And it makes us think about our hearts and how men and women, even the skins bagged with wrinkles, are home to somebody and somebody thinks of love in them. Maybe it is love that spurs heroes out of men.
I spilled the memory of you all over my city so it glistened a bit more. I looked right into the streaming headlights on an adjacent street so it looked like the entire light of the universe was heading towards us. And I found you spilled over the shadows of streelights, over the evening sky, over the moon-earring of a Karachi sunset and over the star that the barely-moon was chasing. I found you spilled in the shadow of a stalled rickshaw, the eyes of a stranger that met mine momentarily, and the guise of contemplation that the city takes on when it comes to rest.
And while we turn into the caretakers of our own histories, we will be as we have always been. And in letters and in love and in memory and in days, and in words and in our youth, we will be the proof that the world might need that we were here and we were alive.
Love,
A friend.
