The Hand
Farhad Ahmed
06 Dec, 2012 08:09 PMI am standing on a bridge, like a stone chiseled by the wind. In this dark time, there is no one to reach out with his hand, and the wistful river now calls me down to where the ghosts of late poets look at me, as if I was an accursed messenger of their fates. While the shadows lazily creep along the purple river like a funeral procession (and I thought that there would be no one at my funeral), inside me there is still a weak glimmer of hope that her hand shall appear from the darkness, warm, shivering and moist like this night in May. But there is no hand in the night chained by darkness, just a freezing river, staring at me with its icy eye, calling me to its embrace. The face of the night changes the further it proceeds, the darkness descends and the horrible clouds run the skies greasy with blood. These are dark heavenly travelers, they aimlessly roam the heavenly paths like eternally drunk sailors. In the boundlessness of the heavenly seas they are now looking for their star which left in the easterners lap. The angry clouds descend between heaven and earth like led generals, their lustful laughter lightens the late hours of night, their steps echo in the dark masterfully next to me, I see their eyes flaming with demonic fire and lightning, and the shadows march like led soldiers behind their generals straight towards me. Life is a battlefield, and people are warriors faithful to their shadows, just like their shadows are faithful to them, and my shadow is down there at the head of the funerary procession, waiting for me. I am standing on the bridge of eternal youth, like old age chiseled by the wind, I hear the heavenly steps of thunder and lightning, I see the fiery hands that iron the lonely space of the purple river like my purple hearse, I am watching into the dark night's eyes, and into the fiery heavenly hands, but there is no human hand, I am leaving to go to my brothers into their purple embrace.
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