I had seen curtains falling too. but if there’s an idea above the mastery of god it is the act of sharing a soul. a touch of honey with pepper sprayed on it in the morning of a cloudy day and Hyderabad sunken in its depth.
no betrayal of voices at the cusp, no alarms tormenting the taste of the honey, no surprises calling the scorch of the sun, and then a wide arena of applause and tears plowing through to the kitchen.
how morning falls like a pat on the shoulder, leasing the pillow while handing over mats. announcing itself without questions and forcing its customs on the dreary streets.
In Karachi, until now the men of the city would have hunted down their lanes. through drags and pulls of their lives and weapons stuck up against their will, in a mass of protesters and ballerinas. hearts onto their sleeves, eyes curled underneath, and a soul on their plate.
beliefs of beloved after a long journey and then a cry for help from another end. to kill it, jolt its bruises, and become a hospice. how each act is like blood stacked in the palms ready to be put to use. and right behind the curtains, there’s a sacrifice of a soul shared or taken.
she calls me home and says there’s a way of doing things. driven from the apartment of wines and honey with beautiful hoors touching grass with their hairs and pouring down to the men at disposal, there is a way of doing things. that’s how mama calls a prayer and gathers the home-runs.
and while one of them has lost a carriage of life in testimony, the other sells an idea book for the next chapter. one drives home and the other reaches. pinnacle of memories in a lost house-office with files piled in plugged to the unit and then redeemed.
i think it’s about Hyderabad. it’s about her. it’s about mama and baba. it’s about souls mired into visuals of a respectful dream or murdered of a young tragedy, sharing what’s left. it’s about flash and blood ready to be thrown at a dare of a meaning - in the innocence of an attempt to exist.
Woahh, it leaves me speechless..