Strike— bare, boastful light.
Snakelike, your silver serenity
Strike with firm, flaunting fatality
Surrender then, to specks flush-light.
Split asunder, your thriving fragility
Shuddering then, a humble complexity
Shimmering so lovingly bright.
Spin I the crystals; your dancing simplicity
Simplicity— oh, so generous in its creativity
Scarce old stars rather I,
than sun’s lifeless white.
20/10/2021
I keep thinking: it must be painful for the mighty rays of sun to be broken to bits by the sun-catcher that shines by my window. Yet, the patterns that form through the process are so overwhelmingly beautiful.
There must be some beauty in the pain that comes through bravery.
There's a saying in Urdu - my mother tongue - which goes like this:
کچھ سوچ کے شمع پہ پروانا جلا ہو گا
شاید اسی جلنے میں جینے کا مزا ہو گا
Which roughly translates to:
"The moth must've thought something before it leapt into the flames
Perhaps it was that burning where the true flavour of living lay
Honestly, I so wish the translation could do justice to how beautiful that verse is in our language. The first time I heard it, it just took my breath away.
