With tired legs, I stagger,
chasing air, red rivers run.
In dull gray, I choke,
a metallic taste, a ringing hum.
Blank eyes of glass figurines,
lost in an explicit horizon,
a weary soul in tatters, dreams
righted, in unthinking wait,
he bears the king’s weight .
Rattling rust, like faded colors,
now betrayed, the trust in our mothers.
Then, cold beauty shrouded,
falls a rain and with no likeness,
the harbinger of pain,
brought on in madness.
It grows bigger, a wave of black,
towering above all.
Frozen, but by unmoving sand,
still, in their fall,
the hand of fate.
Jahan Zaib
Class XII
