A summer afternoon ferments

Dust rises in the city
Like a rebellion
And yet in the bylanes
A summer afternoon ferments
Quietly bubbling up under damp mold
And leaking pipes.

There are corners so dark
The sun never reaches.
Only the rotting stench
Tells its dwellers
That the season has turned.

We do not look for mercy or hope in rain
Life is bottled.

Memory lane

Walk barefoot
When you go down that memory lane
Even if shards from a broken window
Or thorns left by dead roses
Prick and bruise.

Dreams of present
Cannot trample upon
The dreams of past
Nor can both meet.

When a letter drops from an old diary
Or scribbles on the corner of an old book scream
Sing them a lullaby.

Across these aching lanes,
Remains of sunshine
Are etched on cracking walls...
Aging to perish
Yet, immortal.

Saba

The grime of these roads
Never washes off the skin.
Inked over each body
In lines of time
Multiplying
Imaginary wrinkles.

Marked skins can't be pealed off
The city chops it's limbs
And cements the creases
Breathing out poison.

The chained souls seek redemption in a market.

Saba

The tribe of butterflies

I build new walls everyday
Around the perimeters
Of what I call my existence;
Or what you perceive...

I had to perish
The night said
Eating my own flesh
In a self imposed captivity.

My walls would block the sun
And cut the air
But I would still breathe
And as I die to be reborn
In a new skin.

The tribe of butterflies would keep growing.

Saba