Ibrar Sami
Jul 25, 2026
This quiet afternoon
slowly leans
against an invisible wall.
Across the body of clouds
an unnamed fear gathers;
old wounds
mark the face of the sky.
The fallen leaves of late autumn
remain awake
throughout the night.
The wind,
in the dark ledger,
records
the last words of joy.
Now
this is a city of processions,
its face hidden
behind a mask of mourning.
The fallen leaves whisper:
“Traveler,
pause for a moment.
Beneath this earth
an unfinished dream
still lies asleep.”
But the traveler does not stop.
Only the road,
beneath his feet,
slowly comes to a halt.
Yet through the veins of that road
countless shadows
of civilization
are born.
The road speaks:
“I am the beginning.
Within my breast
humanity
first learned
to write its name.”
When evening descends,
the road loses itself
to its own shadow.
A melancholy cloud
stands
at the broken window of the sky
and breaks
into a long, unrestrained cry.
The sorrow
of every fallen leaf
trembles
in the wind
of an unseen rebellion.
All roads
come to rest
in the city of processions.
At last,
only
a nameless leaf remains,
upon which stands
the shadow
of a lost human being.
