Beneath the fine shawls and kohl,
lives someone.
Flame-like.
Wafting in the air.
In immobility, this flame flickers not.
It is as still as still can get.
It is as fragile as silence.
And then the shawls cease to exist
Kohl too isn’t present
Kohl only embraces withdrawn eyes
and a voiceless mind.
Not even music dwells in it,
that otherwise is so incessant.
But how evanescent this spell?
Once again, the shawls begin to encumber
And the kohl starts to smudge
With the repeated blinks of
quivering intellect.
Tales of this enticing flame
You’ve only innocently overheard
I wonder where goes this flame,
when to the world you are dead?
