Zadan ZarikReader, Writer, Reviewer

I play the notes in your eyes, each glance a melody, and in the serenity of your silence, I find the theme of my song. In those eyes, I see a love that is immortal, a love written in the timeless scriptures that speak of devotion. Every glance is a verse, every moment with you a stanza, and I am captivated by the way you enchant me.

Your fingers play the keys of my soul, each touch a note in a symphony of emotion, and with your spell, I am lost in the music of your gaze. The rhyme your heart sings to mine is an ode to simplicity, a love so pure it echoes in the darkness of the night.

My poetry comes to life in motion as I sit by your side, lost in the stars that seem to shine brighter in your eyes. Your innocence and purity are like a majestic reprise, an eternal refrain that fills the world with light.

When you sing your “la la la la,” I am swept away, and your hazel pearls dance before me, mesmerizing and beautiful. Forgive me, Lord, but in these eyes, I find my devotion. I worship them—worshiping with every beat of my heart and the depth of my soul, infinitely.

I play the notes in your eyes, each one striking a chord of serenity. In the silence of your gaze, I find the theme of my life. Through those eyes, I see a love that is eternal, a love written in sacred verses, praised in ancient scriptures that speak of devotion. Each glance you give me is like a finger gently playing on the keys of my heart, and with your spell, you captivate me completely.

The rhyme your heart sings to mine is simple yet profound, an ode to the purity of our connection. It sinks into the kaajal, the darkness of the night, becoming my poetry in motion, sitting softly by my side. In your eyes, I see stars that shine brighter than the ones in the sky, their innocence and purity forming a majestic reprise of the love we share.

When you sing your “la la la la,” I am lost in oblivion, mesmerized by the dance of your hazel pearls. I cannot help but worship them. Forgive me, Lord, but I cannot resist—the depth of your gaze, the infinite devotion I feel, all lead me to worship these eyes with every beat of my heart, with every breath of my soul, infinitely.

As the myrtle leaves its color on my hands, I call upon the rain to refresh these fields with its bliss. O clouds, let your presence linger as long as these bangles jingle, and O thunderclap, sound your bugle in my domain. Wash away our sins as you cleanse the trees, seduce me with the gentle breeze that accompanies you. The raindrops dance, matching the rhythm of my anklets, for my heart is filled with glee, and my spirit is a casket overflowing with joy.

The fragrance of cornfields fills the air, ecstatic with the touch of the monsoon. The air itself is divine, and the noon feels pure as I stand immersed in this moment of delight. I run after the wonders born of rain and light, as if trying to catch the very essence of this celestial beauty.

The zephyr touches me, and the rain kisses my face, filling me with the grace and joy that only nature can bestow. I am a paragon of joy, spinning with the radiance of this effulgent, brilliant moment. I chase sparrows along the winding path, the song of the rain echoing in my heart. Let my soul journey with you, I think, as you wash away this “kaajal” of sadness and bring new light.

The stream flows, its current as refreshing as the rain with the tea I sip. Take me, rain, to the destiny you promise. Enter my veins, carry your aroma deep within me, and long live the innocence of sweet angels who dance in your mist. I run after the clouds on the brook, for today, joy resides in my heart, and glee fills my world.

Locked behind the iron bars, I stand alone, consumed by grief. The eerie silence of this place is unbearable, and the chains that bind my feet cut deep, leaving them bruised and broken. My nails have turned blue, my skin cracked, and dark circles have formed under my eyes—an outward reflection of the torment within. Repentance is tearing me apart from the inside, as my conscience relentlessly hounds me, dragging up the past, flashing memories on the cold stone walls that surround me.

I burn in this melancholy, trapped in a dark domain where I exist in silence, unaccompanied. I bang my head against the walls, trying to escape memories that chase me with a cruel, cryptic, evil way. My past haunts me like a specter, and I miss the simplicity of my teenage years, the rush of energy that flowed through my veins.

I long for my loving, widowed mother, her comforting talks and lullabies. I think of my beautiful girlfriend, the one I called “sugar” and “honey,” whose love shone in her eyes and meant everything to me. The rainy days we spent together, the moonlit nights, the freshness of daisies—those were the moments I cherished in my humble, simply furnished room. My medals and trophies, the tangible signs of my achievements, now feel like distant dreams.

I remember the date so clearly—it’s September 23, six years ago, the day I topped my F.Sc exams. My achievement once shone bright in my eyes, and the entrance to university was just the beginning. But I also remember the cold, mocking eyes of the elite students, their sneers at my simplicity. Rage surged through me, my ego shouting back at their derision. Emotionally driven, I chose a path that would lead me to damnation.

I pursued what fascinated me—the fleeting pleasures of cigarettes and drugs. Each puff of smoke, “satisfying” for a moment, filled my body with a false sense of glee. I abandoned my relationships, my connections, convinced that I was finally free. I made merry in my self-destructive ways, where evil deeds became my twisted form of dignity. I chased my wishes with reckless abandon, but in the end, my ecstasy led me to nothingness.

I was blind to my own actions, unaware of the emptiness that followed. Insolvent, guilty, and lost, I now stand in the prison of my own making. Locked behind these iron bars, I am alone, grieved by the choices I made, haunted by the memories that I cannot escape. The silence of my prison is deafening, and the weight of my regret is heavier than any chain.

I know you know me, you understand me in ways no one else can. I’m your daddy’s girl, always at your side, worshipping the very essence of you. Who am I, if not a part of your divine being, an embodiment of love that God calls “mommy”? I know you see me, and I know you understand me deeply, even when words fall short.

I watch you in pain, and I feel helpless, drowning in sorrow for you. You hide your suffering behind the words, “I’m okay, don’t worry,” but I see through them. To the doctors and nurses, you’re just another patient, yet your endurance divides my soul into fragments, breaking me with each passing moment.

I remember you wiping away my tears, your touch and embrace soothing my fears. But now, the arms that once held me are pierced by pain, and I feel the weight of your suffering. I long for the stick you once used to guide me, as if to take me back to those simpler days, before this world weighed you down.

I feel unshed tears in my soul, tears you wipe away with your trembling hands. My smile, a mere mask to disguise the agony I carry, yet you understand its gravity. It doesn’t matter whether you hear my cries or not—I love you. I love you so much, more than words can express, and I know you feel the same.

In the dead of night, in this haunting melancholy, I see you: simple clothes, grey hair, and a fragile body. Just once, I wish you would caress my hair again, sing that lullaby, and immerse me in the depths of your love. You know how weak I’ve become, how difficult it is to bear the weight of these decisions. I am breaking, yet I still try to glue the pieces of our broken relations together, struggling to hold on.

For I am just a feeble part of your divine entity, and I know, deep down, you still know and understand me—more than anyone else ever could.

This place is full of people like me—people who are, in a way, a burden to the earth. We pass unnoticed, ignored, even loathed by the world around us. Our stories are all the same, woven from the same fabric of hardship, loss, and yearning. We are the forgotten, the invisible ones.

We are old and weak now, bearing the weight of punishment for deeds done long ago, in a time when the good old days seemed so close, so tangible. Now, we gaze back at those days with longing, asking for charity in these last years of our lives.

We all carry the same memories, the same regrets, dejected by our own insanity. Time slips through our fingers as we reign over a domain of poverty, a world replete with distant relations but no true connection. Ours is a kingdom of grief, where each of us holds a subtle imagination of what could have been, yet we are all bound by the same feelings, the same gravity of life’s crushing weight.

We are strangers to one another, yet so familiar—our backgrounds the same, our aims lofty once, now forgotten. We miss the warmth of the fireplaces, the comfort of times gone by. And yet, memories are cruel, casting their images before our eyes, reminders of what we have lost.

Our eyes are dewy, still waiting for something, for anything, in this moment of silence and solace. Hands shake, the evening sinks deeper into loneliness, into places unknown. Our veins are fragile, our hair grey and silvery, and in this twilight, we paint strange imagery on the canvas of our lives.

Hope sinks in the dark estuary of despair. The “old home” we speak of may just be a forgotten cemetery, a place where the living and the dead meet, indistinguishable in their sorrow and silence.