Poetry

Contrasts

“Is there truly a brightness to the day,
without the darkness of the night?
Is there truly talent in few,
without those who’ve suffered a plight?

Is there truly beauty in a face,
without another that is less so?
Is there truly heat in fire,
without the cold of winter snow?

Is there truly an exaltedness to music,
without the normal we too often hear?
Is there truly freedom for some,
without those who love in fear?

Is there truly safety in a mothers arms,
without the perils outside out doors?
Is there truly an ounce of health inside us,
without the time’s were covered in sores?

Is there truly softness to a feather,
without the sheer coarseness of rock?
Is there truly a concept of “loneliness”,
without those who breathe in a flock?

Is there truly youth in a child,
without those who’ve sung a century’s song?
Is there truly any right,
without it’s twin brother of wrong?

Is there truly speed in a bird,
without the wingless it breezes past?
is there truly “good” in “old times”,
without when they are gone so fast?”

…..

Is there truly a need to answer that question?

~Azzam Anwar

Poetry

Sunset in the Mountains

The world quietens to a faint hush as it dips below the horizon,
it,
the glowing sphere of light that rests it’s head every night,
after a perpetual provision of service,
and life,
to all that it’s light touches

It’s orange glimmer seems mesmerising even to the water,
as it dances in ripples around the streaks of glow that it is tickled by,
enjoying one final session of play before the world ceases to emit a sound,
before the orchestra of silence…

Spectra of bright colours fill the air and water,
the once orange light splitting into a million more shades of sunset as it glistens in the evening mist,
creating beautiful, abstract patterns which seem to form images of distant memories, loved ones and happy days,

Which in reality exist in no place other than the mind of the viewer,
fortunate enough to perceive beauty in such a taken-for-granted time,
as he stands on the wooden boards which creak and tremble beneath his feet,
shaken by the man’s knowledge-and fear-that this may be the final time he sees the beautiful sun poke her head above the horizon as she does every dusk-time,

Just enough to see him reel his nets from the water after a prosperous day at work,
his movements peacefully disturbing the pink petals which slumber on the surface of the water,
his saying of praise and thanks evident from the way they flow from his tongue like honey,
and the colourful glimmer that engulfs his eyes

And he watches the glowing ball slowly sink into the water,
hushing all awakes to sleep,
until the mountains and vast landscape before him become no more than a black silhouette against a vanilla sky,

and the vanilla continues to fill the sky,
for all of eternity….

-Azzam Anwar